Obsidian: Book 2 of the Stones Trilogy
by BT Adventurers
Summary: Sequel to Bloodstone: Lord Darien of Blackroot Vale seeks penance for his misdeeds by aiding the small band of peaceable orcs he once hunted. But in his quest for law, old emnities bring new peril to northern Ithilien and to friends of The Burping Troll
1. Chapter 1

**OBSIDIAN**

**By**

**Celebsul, ErinRua and Sevilodorf**

**Being the Second Part of the Stones Trilogy**

**Chapter One**

_14th February  
__Emyn Arnen_

Darien sat with his long hands clasped between his knees, head stooped. A low table beside his chair reflected his image back from its highly polished surface. There was more grey at his temples now, he noted fleetingly, but his main thoughts swarmed with the words he had rehearsed time-and-time again.

A sigh escaped his lips. Waiting. Almost all he had done recently was wait. He was a man of deeds, not words and waiting. Though a landed lord, he fought and farmed - well, once he did. Now his fingers twitched in protest at their inaction. Sitting up, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a small stone. It sparkled in his hand like black glass, a memento given by an elf to a Ranger Captain to pass on to Darien. The ranger, Halbarad, had repeated the elf's words as requested. "Obsidian - fused from the depth of Mount Doom - thus even the most fearsome thing can bring forth beauty. The stone will help transform darkness into light, despair into hope."

A slight smile touched Darien's features. He had thought often of this gift. It was the mirror to his soul. His own unintended dark deeds had led him to despair. And his self-imposed penance was to bring hope to the small band of orcs that he had once sought to exterminate. Where then he had thought all such creatures evil beyond redemption, now he sought for them to be given the protection of the law.

Leaning back to stretch his neck, Darien's hand swept through his black hair, a spark of thought glimmering again briefly on how these last days had increased the grey. The inner changes were too dramatic not to have left such marks on his external appearance. No doubt the lines in his face were deeply etched from recent grief; the loss of his oldest and dearest friend. And from the shame of knowing that his actions had led to that death and to others.

He had also endangered the life of an innocent woman, and deserved a major share of the blame for the injuries she suffered. Yet she sought no revenge, the lady Sevilodorf, wanting only that he succeed in his mission to find justice for the likes of the orc, Gubbitch and his band, and the small uruk-hai, Nik, who dwelt in peace with his fearful friend, Russ the Beorning.

Thinking back, Darien recalled the day when he and his men had been forced to realise that not all of Sauron's minions could be simply dismissed as beasts. From the wreckage of his failed mission to slaughter them, those orcs had worked tirelessly to rescue friend and enemy alike.

After came the reckoning, when amidst the dead and wounded, a pact was forged from the tangled steel of many opposing certainties. Who does not think their own measure of what is right is the true right? All those gathered in that place had been good, kind people, yet they had struggled bitterly to find a way forward that could be accepted by each of them.

Now in his palm, the obsidian, mined by an orc, given to an elf and passed on to a man in the hope of strengthening his resolve; so many fates and friendships rested upon Darien's success or otherwise. As he gazed down, his hand began to tremble. Making a fist, he gripped the stone tightly and inhaled a deep breath.

In battle Darien had been strong and fearless, but what awaited him was a very different fight, what he needed was a very different strength, and fearlessness was beyond him. Even if he were to win, he would be vilified by many who once thought well of him. What honour he had, and that was precious little now, would be stripped from him, and it would feel worse than the stripping of skin. He knew as a certainty that he would face contempt, for the person he had been just a few days before would despise any man who attempted to defend the obviously indefensible.

A slight twinkle reached Darien's blue eyes as an image suddenly sprang to mind. He was standing before the King's Justices in a vast courtroom, and at his own side towered the horrendous figure of Sauron. "Your Lordships, I know this being has done much wickedness in the past, but he has promised to reform and live amongst us in peace. I plead that Sauron be granted amnesty." Darien might have laughed out loud but at that moment the door opened, bringing him to his feet and his senses.

xxx

_A Cave in Mordor_

The cave was cold and damp, devoid of any comfort for the dying orc. His last meal had been over a week ago - a dead rat that had probably also starved in this barren wilderness. It had all been a stupid mistake. He did not regret leaving the pack, but he should have risked venturing amongst men. At worst, it would have resulted in a swift death, not this lingering torture of hunger and feebleness. He could do no more now than move his head to lick at the water trickling down the cave wall.

He'd escaped from the pack in early winter by pretending to go hunting. Had he announced that he intended giving up the robbing and killing of men, his fellows would have executed him on the spot. An orc that did not fight the enemy was both insane and useless. But he had not been insane, just weary of the endless battles and brutality. One of the oldest orcs to survive the last war, he possessed wisdom enough to know that his breed were doomed to dwindle and die out, lacking the guiding will of an overlord equal to Sauron.

It was one thing to struggle for dominion, to hope to become the elite and have mortals bow in deference, but that could not happen now. Even the haughty elves had conceded governance of this land to men. But the other orcs carried on like a careering chariot without a driver, taking down whatever stood in their path but heading ultimately to their own destruction.

At least he had made a choice, taken his fate into his own hands. But then his wanderings led him into a region where winter bit cruel and hard, and after struggling to feed himself, he had foolishly eaten unknown berries. They made him ill. For weeks now he had been losing weight and strength. His body oozed with sores and his bones gleamed pale through tissue-like skin. Much of the time, his mind wandered in mist while he waited for the end.

And what of that end? What ultimate destiny stretched before him? Did Mandos keep a hall for orcs? Would Eru claim kingship over their distorted souls? Or was he bound for the same void where Melkor dwelt? The latter he feared, for he had spent his long life in the service of the dark lord and his dreadful captain. Had he tried living among men, he could have done something redeeming, something that the Valar might regard as 'good'. He was not sure what, he did not fully understand 'good', but he bitterly regretted the missed chance.

The orc's head rolled back, and in his final, fevered dream, he walked towards the city of Emyn Arnen.

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

The Inn of The Burping Troll stood rooted firmly in the earth of Northern Ithilien, a bulwark against both weather and foes and a welcoming haven for any weary travellers who might be seeking the eastward roads. This time of year, however, travellers were few and far between. Shadowy green firs and the sculpted bones of barren oak and ash kept watch along the roadside and also over the brown patch of garden behind the inn. The earth slept still in winter's embrace, and for at least one inhabitant of the inn, spring would be welcome.

Erin the hobbit sighed deeply as she gazed upon the tangle of dead stems that marked the tidy rows. Long months had passed since the last fruits of the kitchen garden were harvested and she and her two hobbit-lass friends completed their preserves for winter use. She was ready for the welcome sight of growing things, for the green heads of jonquils to thrust forth from rich loam, for ferns to curl up from deep beds of fallen leaves and the bright faces of violets to nod along the stream banks. She missed green grass to roll in and vendors selling flowers in Henneth Annûn and above all, she would give almost anything for a fresh sweet carrot.

Once more she sighed, and poked a furry toe at the withered remains of last autumn's pumpkin vine. A crunch of footsteps reached her keen ears then, and she looked up. Someone was walking out there in the woods, and they were not taking any particular pains to go quietly.

The hobbit lass waited, peering through the grey boles of the sleeping wood. Seconds later a dark form appeared among the trees, lurching along in a peculiar, unlovely stride that bespoke only one creature of Middle Earth; an orc.

Erin squinted - then smiled.

"Gubbitch!" she called. "You silly thing, why don't you use the road?"

The gnarled figured stumped and crunched his way towards her, mashing an ungainly path through a briar thicket before coming at last into weak February sunlight. His dark, grim face contorted into what passed for a smile amongst his kind, a smile of many fearsome and colourful teeth.

"Ah don't reckon tha'd want likes of me to fright tha customers, eh?"

"Oh, for pity's sake -." Erin laughed a merry tinkle of sound. "They already left! And it was only some of the king's road surveyors."

One gnarled shoulder lifted then dropped. "Dunno wot's to survey. Ro-wad is reet where they left it."

"Why, I suppose it is at that!" Dimples appeared in the hobbit's round cheeks.

Gubbitch peered then at the bare garden and cocked his scarred head. "Is tha lookin' for summat?"

"No …" Erin's gaze returned to the somnolent earth and the smile slipped wistfully from her face. "I'm wishing for spring, I think. I miss flowers and fresh fruit. I want all the trees green again. I wonder what people are doing down in Henneth Annûn. I wonder what Mistress Devana might be sewing for spring clothes." Once again she gave a great sigh. "And I think I could almost use just a bit of a holiday."

"'Oliday?"

The orc's quizzical look - or what she read as quizzical - clearly indicated that the term had no meaning to him, and Erin giggled.

"A holiday is few days in which to do absolutely nothing but what one wants to do."

"Oh." Gubbitch's brow wrinkled even more hideously. "Ah does that most every day."

Hobbit laughter rang out, and Erin's mood fell away. "Well, come in, then."

Nor was there the least strangeness in the fact that she turned her back towards that ancient enemy or that there was no hostility in his intent. After all, this was the infamous Burping Troll, and the fact of a reclusive band of "rehabilitated" orcs living nearby was but one of many peculiar tales told. How any orcs had found soul or conscience to live as anything but killers and marauders was a mystery even they could not answer.

As Erin started towards the kitchen door she began enumerating on her fingers. "We have sausages left from breakfast and sweet buns and Meri is just finishing a great big pot of chicken soup and she promised dumplings too. And we're all out of buttermilk - in fact, I'd hope someone is going to Henneth Annûn for that and some more cheese - but we have lots of butter and fresh bread and I just know you must be famished. Oh, and we still have some pumpkin pie and I found some more blackberry jam."

"Did tha, now?" Yellowed eyes brightened, and the orc lumbered after the hobbit's round form.

xxx

_Emyn Arnen_

Faramir himself held the open the heavy oak door inviting Darien into his office. The prince was unfamiliar with the landholder, but he had used the time since this minor lord's arrival into his custody to find out as much about him as possible.

On the other hand, Darien had seen Faramir before, albeit at a distance, and had heard rumours of his scholarship. Nothing immediately marked the prince out as a warrior, or someone of high office, but as the lord approached his superior, his eyes met the unwavering steel-blue gaze that told of determined power and authority. Darien bowed to his prince before entering.

Nodding his acknowledgment, Faramir said, "I apologise that I have kept you waiting so long. Please take a seat."

As his glance swept around the office, Darien noted that this was not a room of state, but a relatively small place in which the prince probably carried out his everyday paperwork. However, arched windows along one wall bathed the surfaces in the mellowing light of late afternoon, and a banked fire glowed warmly in the fireplace. The few chairs were of the same type, the same height and the same practical level of comfort. Darien sat down and watched with trepidation as Faramir detoured around the desk, seated himself and drew a wad of papers to the fore.

"You are petitioning for the rights of orcs, yet you are … or were an orc hunter? Am I right?" the prince asked.

Darien was expecting exactly this. He replied without nod or change of expression, "Yes."

_'This man seems a coil of repressed emotions_,' Faramir thought, and then tried to thaw the stiffness out of him. "I must confess to having hunted orcs all my life, like most men. I still do. My records show that you are well respected, and admired by those who owe fealty to you. You have conducted yourself in the field of battle with honour. I hear that you had compassion even for the enemy, where it was due."

"Yes," Darien repeated mechanically then in the ensuing silence he felt obliged to elaborate. "A man may be misguided or coerced to fight alongside the enemy. Once he has seen and accepted the error of his ways, it would be wrong to hold his past against him. If an enemy can become an ally, then our troops are strengthened and our opponents' are weakened."

Faramir nodded then spread his hands on the desk, either side of Halbarad's petition. "But now you make pleas for creatures other than men, for orcs that were bred to be evil."

Darien bowed his head. "If you think that makes me a fool or a traitor, then you judge me no more harshly than I judged others."

Smiling, unseen, Faramir explained, "I have recently met some of the orcs who dwell near The Burping Troll; the same that I believe brought you to a change of mind. They seem no threat; in fact they are held in esteem by some people whose opinions I value."

Darien looked up at his prince, a tinge of colour rising to the peaks of his cheekbones. Then he relaxed by the merest fraction. "You did not have problems with such a contradiction?"

"I know the rangers there very well. When they told me those orcs are peaceful, I listened and reserved my judgement. The rangers proved correct, as far as I can discern."

"Then you are wiser than I for I could not accept that when I was told."

The prince now shook his head. "I said I knew and trusted the people. To you they were strangers. I am not condoning your actions, but you stand accused of no recognised crime. Sevilodorf of Rohan will not condemn you. She wishes nothing more than that your petition will succeed."

Darien's only response was to cast his glance briefly towards one of the tall windows, maybe to draw some of that light into his soul.

Continuing, Faramir explained, "For that to happen, we need much more information, more evidence. Are the orcs of The Burping Troll the only exceptional ones, or is this something that needs addressing across the whole kingdom? Are there instances where men befriended orcs only to be later slaughtered in their sleep? If the Grand Council is to consider this matter, we need facts and witnesses, we need a full and honest account of the truth."

The light and the prince's words had kindled a glimmer in Darien's eyes. "Yes, sire. For if there is any situation we have not assessed, any argument we have not heard, then it will surface at the council as proof that whoever presents the case has been negligent; there will be many more people who wish this to fail than who want it to succeed. The slightest flaw will be used to rip the petition to threads."

"More than that, Lord Darien." Faramir finally graced the man with his name and title. "I will not allow this to go forward unless I am fairly certain it will both succeed and command wide support; otherwise the cost to the kingdom would be too dear. We are struggling to rebuild cities, lives, and trust between men. To ask an unwilling population to accept and even protect some of our lifetimes' enemies would be to divide the loyalty of the realm. I will not risk that. You must construct a case that will change hearts as well as minds, and if you cannot, then the law will stand as it is."

"That is not going to be easy," Darien admitted.

A wry expression twisted Faramir's mouth. "No, I'd say almost impossible. And I cannot even offer you any assistance; it is essential that I remain impartial."

Nodding in agreement, Darien reflected for a moment then explained, "I still have a few resources, and maybe there are one or two people who would help or advise me."

"I hope so." The prince rose to his feet.

Darien immediately did likewise; etiquette between nobility and royalty required it.

Faramir dismissed the lord with as kindly words as he could, "Go and build your case, Lord Darien. Return if and when you are sure you can persuade me to allow it before the Council."

Darien bowed, but delayed his departure for a final question. "Sire, this may take me a long time. Meanwhile, what of the safety of the orcs at the inn?"

"The rangers will do their best to ensure no more hunters go after them. Orcs may be outside the law, but any that choose to live in peace will have some measure of protection, as much as the king's men are willing and able to provide."

With a nod of gratitude and a final deep bow, Darien left the room contemplating what his next action should be.

xxx

It had been the first day of February when Captain Halbarad rode with Darien to Henneth Annûn. From there, other rangers escorted the repentant orc hunter on to Emyn Arnen and into the palace of Prince Faramir, a journey of three days in total.

Once at the palace, Darien had been informed of the prince's absence by a rather haughty chamberlain. "Prince Faramir has important duties that will keep him away from the city for quite a few days. I'm instructed, sir, to give you quarters in which to wait until the prince returns."

The rooms allocated to Darien were as befits a royal residence, but despite being well housed and fed, the days had crawled past, each one longer than the previous. In all that time, the only person he spoke to was the chamberlain. The man was insufferably formal, maintaining a cold distance by the use of impersonal addresses, 'your lordship' or 'sir'. He appeared three times a day to pompously announce each meal as a silent young woman carried it into the room.

Darien's audience with Faramir did not take place until the fourteenth of the month, much later than he had ever imagined. And after the audience there was little of the day remaining in which to start the long ride back to Henneth Annûn. But start he did, for he could not endure another minute of waiting.

xxx

"How did it go?" Eowyn's bright blue eyes danced with interest and concern as she looked across the small dining table that she and her husband used when they were alone.

Faramir cocked his head to one side, a variety of subtle expressions animating his face. His wife referred to the interview with Darien, a subject about which they had both worried. "I wish I could have offered more support and encouragement, help even."

"I know," Eowyn responded with sympathy, gesturing for Faramir to begin his soup. "But we agreed that we cannot be seen to take sides. It is hard though, especially when you consider those interesting orcs that we met at Halbarad and Elanna's wedding. But, as you have said, how do we know if they are rare exceptions? To risk a divisive legal challenge for a handful of orcs who can be just as safely guarded by rangers …"

"Is using a sledgehammer to crack a nut," Faramir finished Eowyn's sentence, pointing with his spoon at her own neglected bowl. "But I still feel uncomfortable, allowing the man to take the burden upon himself …" Then, in response to his wife's raised eyebrows, "Yes, it was his choice and, in some measure, to ease his feelings of guilt, I suspect."

Eowyn smiled then explained quietly, "I feel far more uncomfortable about leaving him for so long with no other company than Willelmus."

Laughing gently at the reference to their chamberlain, Faramir agreed. "Unfortunate timing. There was the wedding to attend and messages to be sent to and from Elessar. Everyone was particularly busy, due to our preparations and subsequent absence."

He lowered his voice and continued, "Willelmus, being the only one on our staff who cannot do other than his birthright-assigned role, was the obvious person to leave in charge of guests. Though he has since complained that it was beneath his dignity to have to tend our orc-hunting lord."

Eowyn's eyes widened. She put down the glass of wine from which she had been about to sip. "The nerve of the man!" she exclaimed in outrage, but then suddenly started giggling.

"What?" Faramir wanted to share in this amusement.

"Could we exchange him for one of those orcs at the inn? I'm sure they'd do a better job."

Luckily, the prince was neither eating nor drinking at this moment, for laughter exploded from his mouth. When he had recovered sufficiently, he replied, "Oh, Eowyn, please don't tempt me."

Composing her features, the princess turned back to more serious matters. "Darien will no doubt find assistance on his endeavour. I'm sure the folk at the Troll will help, and his comrade, Horus, said he would return to the inn as soon as possible."

It was now Faramir's eyes that widened with shock.

"What?" Eowyn asked, though she had a sinking feeling that she knew what her husband was about to say.

"I forgot to tell him."

"Oh, Faramir! You get all tied up in matters of state and sometimes let small, but important things get lost."

"It is not lost," the prince declared, ringing a small bell that resided on the table.

Within moments, Willelmus entered the room. "You wished something, sire?"

"Yes. Take a message to Lord Darien. Inform him that the man called Horus has escorted the two injured boys back to the Blackroot Vale, but he will be returning."

The chamberlain sniffed. "I'm sorry, sire, but the lord has left already. He said he would be riding out immediately. Shall I compose a letter instead?"

With a sigh and a rueful glance at his wife, Faramir shook his head. "No, Willelmus. That will be all."

xxx

TBC ...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_15th February  
__Henneth Annûn_

Darien rode late into the night, early into the dark hours of the next morning, then he camped, allowing the horse to rest while he tossed and turned, seeking vainly for sleep. Despite the cold and his nagging thoughts, sleep finally found him, and she brought the usual array of flashbacks and portents. He awoke with a start; Landis, his closest friend, his dead friend, speaking words that further chilled him. But the voice and its meaning evaporated as soon as Darien's eyes sprang open to the overhead sun. He cursed and clambered out of his blankets. He had not intended to delay so long. Breaking camp, and eating no more than dry rations, he set out at a steady pace once more.

It was growing late when Darien arrived at Henneth Annûn. He went directly to the tavern where he had stayed previously, The Whistling Dog. A cheerful lad offered to take care of Darien's mount; the horse leant to him by Halbarad. This was one of the factors that had determined Darien's course, to return to The Burping Troll with the ranger's steed. But first, there was someone in the town he wanted to meet.

As he entered the inn, the redheaded barmaid, Sira, greeted him. She recognised Darien and flirted half-heartedly while showing him to a room. Sira recollected this man's last visit. He had remained cool with her but one of his two companions, the older man - what was he called? - Landis. Yes, Landis. He had been friendly and fun. She wondered whether he might show up too. Then she remembered that the trio had been involved in troubles that resulted in the deaths of some men, and injury to her archenemy, Sevilodorf.

'_Every cloud has a silver lining_,' Sira mused cheerfully before asking, "You only want the one bed, sir, or are the other gentlemen arriving later?"

Darien simply stared at the girl for a moment. Then he managed to say, "No, just the one bed. The other men will not be joining me."

Sira shrugged, opening the door to a small room. "I hope this will suit you then, sir. Just call if you want anything."

Before she could leave, Darien asked, "There's a farm out on the west side of town. Do you know who owns it?"

Sira shrugged a white shoulder; farmers did not interest her at all. "Might be one of several."

"A large farm, with low stone walls about the fields. It's not on the road to the garrison, but on the smaller road going south."

Wrinkling her nose in thought, a look she had practiced often to determine the most appealing pose, Sira said, "Oh, that'd be Farmer Tiroc."

She batted her eyelashes and smiled broadly, pleased that she had been able to answer the question. Her disappointment that Landis would not be coming faded as she mulled on Darien's air of distinction, an air that carried the scent of wealth.

"Does Tiroc ever frequent this tavern?"

To Sira's ears, the man's voice also dripped with gold. If he was on his own, maybe she could get him to thaw a little; the offer of useful information would no doubt help. "He was here a few moments ago looking for his son. He's just set off to check at The Black Cauldron." She shook her head in disgust. "That lad's become a real problem."

"I'll try to catch up with Tiroc then. What does he look like and where is The Black Cauldron?" Darien reached into his pocket for a coin to quicken the girl's tongue. It worked, she rattled off a description and route, taking the money as Darien hastened out of the room.

'_Well_,' Sira thought as she watched the man leave, '_that's a promising start. I hope he comes back soon_.' She examined the bright disk in her palm. _'I'll wager there's more where this came from_.'

xxx

Darien entered The Black Cauldron and came to an immediate halt. It was as different to The Whistling Dog as night is to day; the gloomy, oppressive room crowded his senses with mumbling voices, choking smoke and overripe smells. Whoever owned the place used cheap oil in the few, rusty lanterns, adding more fumes than light to the depressing atmosphere. The walls, where he could make them out, bore dribbled brown droplets down the yellowing paint. He shuddered at the thought of touching any of the surfaces.

Pulling his attention back to the reason for setting foot in such a pit to begin with, Darien peered around at the faces of the occupants. In one of the far corners, he spotted a familiar figure; it was Cullen, a farm lad who had assisted the orc hunters when they arrived in Henneth Annûn over a month ago. A stocky, balding man, seemingly arguing with the youth, matched Sira's description of the farmer exactly. With an inward groan, Darien realised that this was Tiroc and, putting two and two together, the lad must be the farmer's son; an unexpected complication. Darien gritted his teeth and made his way towards them.

Turning his face from his father's anger, Cullen watched as a tall man approached. The youth's ale-bleared eyes struggled to focus. There was something … His mouth fell open then it twisted savagely.

"YOU!"

This is going to be hard, Darien thought. His last encounter with Cullen was when the youth had led the hunters to Rablot, an orc who worked for Tiroc. Apparently he had not expected Darien to execute the creature. '_You said you were only going to talk to him. He wasn't hurting nobody_.'

No time to ponder. Tiroc was also staring at him.

"And who are you?" the ruddy-faced farmer demanded.

"We need to talk …" This was certainly going to be hard. Maybe he should have waited for morning, but he was weary of waiting. "… Let me get you some drinks."

"The lad's had more than enough already," Tiroc growled as his bushy eyebrows creased into an expression, both angry and worried. "He always does recently. And I don't want to be in this place a moment more than I need to."

"Please." Darien tried to stress the importance of his request. "I'll get Cullen a tea. I've been on the road all day and need to wash the dust from my mouth."

"The blood from yer 'ands … " Cullen slurred.

At this, Tiroc straightened his back and schooled his face. The stranger and his son knew each other somehow and Cullen's words seemed ominous.

He said to the tall man, "Whoever you are, fetch the drinks. We will talk."

When Darien returned with a tray containing tankards of ale and a mug of tea, the farmer and his son were sitting quietly, Cullen slumped scowling and slack-jawed beside the stern figure of his father. Darien placed the drinks on the pitted table then, dragging a nearby chair, he sat down facing them.

Tiroc stared at him coldly and stated, "You killed Rablot."

As Darien nodded, struggling to compose a reply, Tiroc's fury was curbed by a measure of relief. Since the orc's murder, Cullen had been increasingly moody and withdrawn. The farmer had begun to worry that his son had been involved somehow; even that maybe he had killed the orc. Tiroc listened in silence as the stranger began his explanation.

"My men and I have spent most of the time since the war hunting down orcs, wanting to cleanse the land of their evil."

"Rablot wasn't evil!" Cullen hissed, but his father's sudden hand on his arm bid him to keep quiet.

Darien grimaced. "I know. I know that now. There are some orcs who are not evil, a few who deserve to live in the peace they seek, but there is no law that says killing them is criminal."

Ignoring his father's wishes, Cullen cut in. "Well there should be. You forced me to lead you to Rablot then you sliced off his …"

The youth fell silent as unspoken words burnt in his throat and the memory of the orc's lifeless eyes staring back at him threatened to call up the contents of his stomach.

"No, Cullen. Do not paint me blacker than I am. We did not force you. We paid you. And you did not ask why we were seeking orcs."

Tiroc mused on this. His boy had taken coins to lead men to their orc. Greedy and stupid, Cullen didn't question their reasons until it was too late. No wonder his conscience was eating away at him.

But the farmer was puzzled. "So why come back? Why seek us out? Are you here to apologise? If so, you are wasting your time. The one you should ask pardon from is dead."

"I'm here to find witnesses and evidence."

Blowing air sharply through his teeth, Tiroc frowned. "For what?"

Darien explained and the farmer listened with growing interest. By the time the tankards were empty, Tiroc had agreed not only to be a witness that some orcs could live and work alongside men, but also to keep an ear open for any other examples in the area.

"In fact, there's a few orcs that work here; they seem decent enough. Other orcs, and orc-like men, come here once in a while - they're not allowed in at The Whistling Dog - but I'd not give most of them the time of day. They'll do anything to earn money to drink and gamble. And I mean anything. Though truth be, they are little worse than some of the men in here."

"You know that many people will not be pleased about what I'm doing," Darien warned, "and what you are proposing to do."

Tiroc snorted. "No need to tell me that. I had enough snide comments when Rablot worked for me. But that didn't stop people from being shocked at what you did to him. Not many round here would take their dislikes that far. Most of us have left pasts behind that we would just as soon forget. We don't ask each other about what went before, we judge on what we witness now."

Throughout this conversation, Cullen had sipped at his tea and remained gloomily silent, now he spoke up. "You're not really going to help this murderer, are you, Dad?"

"Aye, I am, son. He made a mistake and now he's trying to put it right, and it's going to cost him an acre of grief. Besides, it's a worthy cause and one I want to play a part in. It's only fair, hard though it'll be."

"Well, I won't forgive him so easy." Cullen sneered as he turned his gaze towards Darien. "You broke my sister's heart. She liked Rablot."

"Did I ask your forgiveness?" Darien stared evenly back at the youth. "If you need to forgive anyone, I suspect it is yourself." He had heard similar words spoken when he had been wracked with guilt.

Tiroc rose to his feet and pulled his son up with him. "There's some truth in that, Cullen. Let's get you home." Before leaving, the farmer paused and asked the stranger, "You've got our names. Do you have one of your own?"

With the first slight smile since arriving, the tall man stood and said, "Darien. And thank you for your offer to help."

"I'll bid you good night then, Darien. And my help is not so much for you as for the likes of Rablot."

xxx

_Outskirts of Emyn Arnen_

'_Orders are orders_,' Odbut told himself, as he crawled along in the night-darkened grass. So he was to kill another man. What of it? He had killed many before. That he could see no reason for it - no war - no threat - no apparent gain - was neither here nor there. Just follow orders. That was the way for an orc to keep a full belly. That was the way to avoid the whip. He served a lesser master now, but it was better than having no master at all. Odbut shivered at the thought, to be alone, to fend for himself, to try to think what course to take. He couldn't do that. He lived for orders and followed them blindly.

Thus he shuffled on his belly towards a dimly lit hut in the midst of a small wood. Stealth was not a skill he possessed in any measure, nor did he enjoy it. He preferred the exhilaration of open battle, the charge towards a seeing enemy, the joy of demonstrating his dominant strength to each dying opponent. But his orders were to stab the man in the back without being noticed. Master did not want the victim to have any chance of escape. Odbut spat quietly. His master had a poor opinion of him if he thought that was a possibility.

But then Master was welcome to whatever opinion he pleased. It mattered nothing to Odbut. He had not understood his previous master either, though he had feared him much more. The one who now ruled his life was nothing in comparison. Odbut wondered what his master would think if he knew the true thoughts of his servant; he despised him. Master was a sneaking, slimy snake that saved its venom for those whom it allowed near. Enemies, or rather anyone who in any way inconvenienced the master, were secretly snuffed out by minions. What pleasure could be deprived from cold reports of death? Were it Odbut who wanted someone dead, he would kill them himself, feel the warm blood splash on his hands, look into the dimming eyes as they watched him laughing.

Shaking his lumpy head, the orc concentrated on his task. He hid behind a bush then mewed softly. This man kept a cat, Odbut had been told. He knew the aging feline was not in the hut, in fact, he had helped it precede its owner into the afterlife. The orc grinned and mewed again.

With a creak, the wooden door opened, spilling pale light across a strip of ground. The figure of a man stood silhouetted in the doorway.

"Tibbles? Come in, Tibbles."

Odbut's face crumpled in disgust - Tibbles! The man deserved to die. Remaining still and silent, the assassin waited for his victim to emerge from the doorway. It was not a long wait. As the man walked slowly out in search of his pet, Odbut leapt from the bush and plunged his blade through the soft tunic, deep into the man's back.

It took a few moments for the life to drain from the body. Odbut spent that time dragging his victim back into the hut. Once inside, he shut the door then examined his work. The man was dead, but Odbut drew his blade again. His orders were to bring back the head as proof of his success. The orc was content to do so but there was no rush, and he saw no reason to waste the remaining fresh meat.

xxx

_16th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

The fawning of Sira when he had returned to The Whistling Dog left an unpleasant taste in Darien's mouth. It competed with the stagnant tang of smoke that still tickled at his throat in the cold morning as he rode the ranger's horse towards The Burping Troll. He had given the redhead a few coins to keep her sweet, better that than to become a whipping post for her tongue. But it was probably only a matter of time …

How he envied Farmer Tiroc's concerns, to have family to care for. Maybe the boys and Horus would still be at the inn; they were his only friends in the area. All his other men had returned home to Darien's holding in the Blackroot Vale, but the young brothers, Evan and Neal had been injured and were recovering at the inn. He had left them under the guardianship of Horus, the Haradrim, a man he trusted completely. It would be good to be among familiar faces again.

Making a cheerful clicking sound with his tongue, Darien urged the horse onwards. The miles and the hours passed quickly along the quiet route. He stopped only once for a short while, more to rest his mount than himself. It was a good Rohan gelding, bred for both speed and endurance, but his journey did not require him to make demands on those traits. He had taken the previous long trek at a steady pace. Today's shorter trip he made leisurely to ensure the animal kept his superb condition. Darien's own bay gelding might await him at the inn, but he had entrusted the horse to Sevilodorf and had no way of knowing if it would be available to him.

When he arrived at The Burping Troll, it was mid-afternoon. Meri the hobbit greeted him from the porch and she called for Milo to take care of the horse. Then she ushered Darien into the empty common room and seated him at a table.

"We'll prepare you a bed for later. Meanwhile, you must be famished. What can I get you?"

"Is Horus still here? And Neal and Evan?"

Meri did not read minds. She didn't need to, for she had an understanding heart. Her bright blue eyes studied Darien's face for a moment. This man wanted the warmth of comrades more than food or comfort, but food and comfort were all she could offer.

A frown of sympathy creased the brow beneath the hobbit's golden curls. "Your friends have returned to their homes, they left on the seventh, but Horus said he would come back. It cannot be too many days until he does." Her small hand patted the man's arm. "Let me bring you something special to eat," she said, before hurrying to the kitchen.

Shrugging off the heaviness that had descended on hearing that he would be alone, Darien leant back into the wooden chair, stretching muscles stiff from riding. '_Something special._' It didn't take long to get to know the tendencies of hobbits. Despite the fact that supper was still hours away - so not too much food could be currently cooking - he warned his stomach to expect a mountainous repast of some form or other.

Meri and Erin conspired together in the kitchen. This Darien was a stiff sort of person who kept his emotions schooled, and despite the fact that he had done 'bad' things, the hobbits knew that he was now trying to make right much that had gone wrong. They also understood that he would be feeling like an outsider, as they had when they left the Shire. Meri busied herself cooking a gigantic, fluffy omelette packed with cheese and ham. Erin scraped a mound of cold mashed potato into a sizzling frying pan then set about slicing and buttering doorsteps of bread. When the third hobbit lass, Camellia, appeared, she immediately began peeling and chopping soft apples from the winter store, covering them with spices and honey, then with cream that had been whipped until it was thick.

Darien hardly believed it was possible, but a trio of hobbit maidens appeared within minutes with trays of the most delicious looking food wafting aromatic steam. He grimaced good-naturedly at the lasses with an expression that attempted to convey delight, gratitude, hunger, and apology in advance for anything that he might be obliged to leave. He knew these smiling hobbits were doing their best to make him feel welcome and at home. As they left him to eat, Darien's heart warmed and his appetite awoke, eyeing the table with zeal.

He had just taken the first bite of fried potato when a slight scent of sulphur drifted under his nose. Before he could contemplate the source, a deep and very unhuman voice behind him enquired, "What would you like to drink with your meal, sir?"

Darien paused before turning round to answer. When he had first visited the inn, the infamous balrog bartender had not been anywhere to see, so he and his men had doubted its existence. On his second visit, however, he had caught sight of the creature. Slowly twisting in his chair, Darien looked across to the bar. Yes … there was the balrog … standing patiently waiting with wisps of smoke curling off its black, scaly hide.

As his mouth had opened of its own volition, Darien decided he might as well reply. "I'll have cider, thank you."

"Coming right up," the bartender rumbled.

Darien thanked the balrog when it … he … placed the tankard down on the table. As the sulphurous fumes followed the creature out of the room, Darien took a deep gulp of the golden drink and resumed eating.

A while later he realised he was reaching the point where his stomach would accept no more. Then Halbarad strode into the room. The aquamarine eyes of the Ranger captain met those of the landholder, and both men exchanged nods. Halbarad detoured from his intended destination, seating himself opposite Darien. Seeing that the man was struggling to finish a bowl of apples and cream, the stern face of the Ranger relaxed into an amiable grin.

"Do you mind if I deprive you of that last slice of bread?"

"Please do," Darien granted thankfully.

Halbarad reached between plates, gathering up the unanticipated afternoon snack. "Faramir has allowed the petition?"

"To a degree," Darien answered. Then went on to outline what had happened since Halbarad had escorted him to Henneth Annûn.

He concluded, "I guess the best starting point is with the local orcs and the residents here. I'd really like to talk to Sevilodorf first."

Halbarad shook his head. "That won't be possible for a while. She and Anardil are on a trading venture to the dwarves of Ash Mountain. I don't expect them back for at least a few days."

With a long sigh, Darien admitted, "So far all I've been able to do is kick my heels. All the waiting around has been frustrating. I'll see if I can speak to the orcs then, and I might need to hire another horse if Sevilodorf still has mine."

"She doesn't. She's taken her carthorse. Your bay is out in the paddock. He's grown accustomed to the other horses and is very good natured."

Halbarad didn't voice his thoughts on how this contrasted with his own evil-tempered stallion. Instead, he suggested, "You ought to ask Celebsul whether Gubbitch is coming over tonight. He tends to visit two or three times a week."

"I'll do that. Is the elf likely to be in his workshop?"

Halbarad smiled wryly. "That's where he can usually be found when he is not off on some jaunt or another, which he's not, or at least wasn't this morning."

"Thanks, I'll go and look." Darien piled the now empty plates and bowls together. "Should I take these to the kitchen?"

As Halbarad pushed back his chair to stand up, he warned, "Not if you value your life. The hobbits clear tables, or they bribe a young elf to help out. Guests are strictly forbidden to do anything resembling work." He grinned. "On pain of death. You understand?"

Allowing a brief laugh to escape his lips, Darien moved both hands well clear of the crockery. "I'll leave them here."

The ranger departed into the back of the inn while Darien went out to the porch. There he found the hobbit lad, Milo, who cheerfully informed him, "I've put your bag in room eleven. Camellia's up there now getting things ready."

Darien thanked the hobbit then went around the south side of the building towards the workshop. The door was standing partially open but no noise emerged, so Darien rapped on the wood with his knuckles.

"Come in," a familiar voice called.

At the invitation, Darien opened the door and stepped inside.

The silver-haired elf was sitting on a stool, head bent examining a small piece of wood in one hand. His other hand held a slender steel file.

Without raising his eyes, Celebsul said, "Take a seat, Lord Darien."

Putting aside the question of how the elf recognised him by some sense other than sight, Darien requested with emphasis, "Please, no formalities. I've had plenty of those in Emyn Arnen." He pulled over a stool and sat before the elf.

"You wouldn't be referring to a certain chamberlain, would you?" Celebsul asked, glancing up with a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You've met him? The kind of man who, if asked to polish the silver, would watch his own house burn down rather than interrupt his official duty," Darien summed up the chamberlain then went on to explain, "I am rarely addressed by my title and prefer it that way. Besides, I do not know the correct manner in which to address you. I've heard it rumoured that you are one of the Eldar."

"My name is all I own title to," Celebsul replied, then changed the subject. "Is there some way in which I can help?"

"I hope so. Prince Faramir has asked me to gather evidence on the likely numbers and trustworthiness of orcs living among or alongside men. I thought the best place to start was here. Halbarad said you might know if Gubbitch was likely to be at the inn this evening."

"Oh yes he will." The elf grinned broadly. "I won four coins from him at cribbage a couple of days ago. He'll be back to take his revenge tonight, I'm certain."

"Don't you always win?" Darien wondered, still unsure of the nature of the orcs that he had sworn to help.

"By no means. Gubbitch's appearance and manner may be strange, as are his thought processes sometimes, but he has a clever mind and a deep wisdom."

"You trust him completely?" Now was as good a time as any to explore the relationship.

"Yes, I do," the elf responded without need to ponder. "As much as I trust the Rangers and the hobbits."

"Would you be prepared to vouch for him and his band in front of the Great Council?"

"Of course. Though this is really a matter for men and orcs. But if men are prepared to hear my opinion, I will gladly give it."

The elf's eyes kept straying to the piece of wood in his hand, as though it were a magnet to his attention.

Darien had the information he needed for the present. He allowed his own curiosity to be drawn.

"What are you making?" he asked.

"You have the obsidian I sent you?"

"Yes, right here in my pocket."

"When this carving is complete, it will house the stone and you can wear it on your belt."

Darien leaned closer to examine the object. It was pale, and looked smoother and more flexible than wood, though wood it was. Intricate, filigree patterns wove fluidly around an empty space at the heart of the carving. "How will you ever place the stone inside it?"

"Much more easily than you will convince the Council to accept the rights of orcs."

xxx

TBC ...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_16th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

Gubbitch arrived at his usual time, just as the dishes from supper were being cleared away. He ate with his fellow orcs before visiting the inn. By missing out on the hobbits' cooking, he was guaranteed a sack full of leftovers and treats to take back to the camp later. To his way of thinking, this was not exploiting the kindness of hobbit folk, but rather making sure his lads got as well fed as he.

Searching the room for Celebsul, Gubbitch was only mildly surprised to see the man seated alongside his friend. Trying not to be irritated that Darien's presence would distract from the cribbage grudge match, the orc ambled over to join them.

After scrambling onto a chair, Gubbitch looked up at the man and asked with his usual frankness, "Wot thy 'ere for?"

Darien peered down his nose. "In an attempt to win you some legal rights."

"Ah suppose that's better than tryin' ter kill me. But wot if ah dunt want legal reets?"

"It isn't a matter of choice. If I can win legal rights, you get them, whether you want them or not." Darien stated testily.

_'Mm,_ _sounds as though 'e's not 'ad too much fun lately_,' Gubbitch thought. The orc decided to amend this. "Well mebbe ah dunt want 'em an' mebbe neither does me lads. Thee leave us alowan. Get theesen summat else ter pass thee time. Me an' Cel 'ere are gonna 'ave a game o' cribbage."

Darien frowned with frustration. "But of all people, I need you to be a witness!"

"Wot's it worth?" The orc peered up through one black, beady eye while the other hid inside a wrinkled eyelid.

Briefly examined the ceiling, Darien drew a deep breath. "What will it take?"

"Beat me at cribbage."

The man's glance shot first to the elf then to the orc. "I've never played cribbage!"

"Wot does tha play?"

Thinking back through many years, Darien finally arrived at a game he once excelled at. "'Evens' … but I don't suppose you have the tiles here?" It was not very commonly played, requiring considerable mathematical ability.

"Aye, we do," Gubbitch admitted merrily. "Though there's not many dare tek me on at that, barrin' young Aerio."

"I'll take you on, but only if we play the 'Extreme' version," Darien challenged.

With a broad grin, Gubbitch agreed. "Fine by me. Wot's odds?"

"Two gold pieces against you providing honest witness to the Grand Council."

"Ten."

"Three is my maximum."

"Eight, or ah won't bother."

"Four, and that's it."

"Mek it five and we'll call it evens," Gubbitch chuckled.

"If you call five even, I'm not in much danger of losing. Five it is."

"Good," Gubbitch responded, then called for the Balrog to bring the tiles.

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Cullen tipped the bottle back and drank deeply. Barley wine was not his drink of choice, but beggars could not be choosers, especially at The Black Cauldron.

During his last visit to the disreputable bar, Farmer Tiroc had informed the bartender in no uncertain terms that Cullen's debts were his own. The word had been passed and earlier in the evening, the proprietor, a solid lump of a man with fists as large as meat plates, had warned the young man that there would be no more credit extended. Worse, notice had been given that all outstanding amounts must be paid by a week from Thursday.

Morosely, the youth had turned to leave, when chance in the form of a light hand on his arm intervened.

"My good Drath, that's no way to treat a steady customer." The stranger's cultured voice suggested that a great injustice was being done. "The lad's just fallen on some hard times, when the wheel turns he'll be in the silver again and might be tempted to take his custom elsewhere. Wouldn't you, lad?"

Cullen's quick, "That I would. There's better places than this," was more a result of the slight grin that seemed to invite him to join the whip-thin man in a jest of some sort than in any belief that his luck would ever turn again.

Ignoring Drath's churlish reply, the stranger had tossed a coin toward the man, gathered up two bottles of the dark, bitter brew and led the youth to a table near the smoldering fireplace.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Cullen settled back to gaze curiously upon the elegantly dressed man across the table from him. His deep red velvet tunic and fur-trimmed cape placed him several notches above the others occupying seats in the dim recesses of The Black Cauldron. Even, the farm lad acknowledged with a scowl at his own work worn leather vest and sturdy boots, a cut above Cullen himself.

"You're wondering why I would be so generous, aren't you, lad?" The man's leaf green eyes glowed in the dim light as he gave an offhanded shrug, then continued in his soft voice. "I'll explain. There is not enough generosity in this world. We have endured many years of war and strife. It is incumbent on men to help each other. For now, I am in the silver and you are not. Someday it will be your turn to help out a fellow man."

"But…" Cullen stopped, realizing that protesting the man did not even know him was a rather ridiculous thing to say.

"But? But I do not know you?" An easy smile accompanied a slight wave of his hand. "Ah lad, look around you, we've all been in the same spot you are today."

For an instant, Cullen was dismayed to believe that the men occupying the seats in the darkened corners of The Black Cauldron were at all like him. In other days he would have considered all of them beneath him, though he was only the younger son of a free farmer. These were men who owned no land, who plied no honorable trade, and whose eyes held a certain hardness, or perhaps it was an emptiness, that Cullen could not bear to meet for long.

But then his gaze caught the gleam of a coin exchanging hands in some lively game of chance being played across the room, and his ears were treated to the silvery laugh of the buxom chestnut haired barmaid passing by with a tray. The light reflected off the bottle in his hand as Cullen lifted it once more to his lips. No, this wasn't such a bad place.

Taking a small sip from his own bottle, the man opposite from Cullen observed quietly, as if reading his mind, "But this is not such a bad place, is it?"

Nodding and setting his bottle upon the table, Cullen agreed, "No, it's not."

That easy smile flashed again and Cullen found himself smiling back, fascinated by the way the man's eyes seemed to shift from green to silver in the dim light.

"I should introduce myself. I know that you are called Cullen. My name is Margul."

Soon the two were deep in convivial conversation, the youth doing most of the talking in response to the man's questions. Margul proved an intense listener. He seemed genuinely interested in Cullen's knowledge and opinions, a stark contrast to his father, Tiroc. The farmer was dismissive of his youngest son's ideas, rarely taking the time to hear a full explanation. Yet here was a man of some standing who recognised that Cullen's words had value. And Margul also shared the youth's appreciation of a relaxing drink, ensuring that neither of them ran dry of wine.

Cullen wasn't sure what brought the subject up. Maybe his assessment of his father had simply run on into it. But he found himself explaining how Tiroc was involved in a campaign to win legal rights for orcs - and doing so with the very man who had killed their farm orc.

Margul paused for a moment with a look of mild surprise. "Really! Well I think that is taking matters a little too far. I employ a few orcs myself, they are quite capable of some tasks, and I ensure their health and welfare. But orcs are not people. The death of a useful one is regrettable, but no more so than a good horse or oxen. Your father has allowed himself to become overly sentimental. He should pay more heed to the talents of his son than the loss of a creature bred by our ancient enemy."

'_Yes_,' Cullen thought. _'I did no more than accidentally lead hunters to their prey. My father is a fool. He fails to see my worth, yet fights for creatures that are no more than beasts. This Margul has more wealth and sense than my father …_ ' the youth's thoughts faded and he looked up at his companion through blurring eyes.

Margul smiled at the lad. "I have to go now. I'll see you in here again?"

"But I'm not likely to be coming back soon," Cullen stated, taking another swig from the bottle.

"Ah, that's right; your unfortunate problem with Drath. There's no hope of raising the amount required by Thursday next?"

Cullen shook his head slowly. The wine was much stronger than the ale he was used to, and his brain seemed a bit muzzy.

"Too bad. We were just getting to know one another," Margul said regretfully, swirling his bottle idly so that the light bounced off in ever changing ripples. As if struck by a new idea, he suddenly sat up straighter.

"I've been needing someone for an upcoming transaction." Then with a dismissive motion, he said, "Of course, you might not be interested. It involves a bit of travel and…" Margul's voice trailed away.

A sudden surge of hope ignited and then vanished. Cullen asked doubtfully, "Travel?"

There was much to be done in preparation for the spring planting, and his father and brothers would expect him to do his share. However, he knew with a certainty that there was not enough tucked away in his room at home to meet Drath's demands for payment, despite the fact he had received his quarter day allowance a scant six weeks ago. There would be little enough time to earn the needed amount and few opportunities for employment that paid in coin were to be found in the area.

"Yes, two or three days, perhaps as much as a week." Margul continued, watching Cullen's face carefully.

"I couldn't…" the youth began, only to be interrupted by an ear-rending crash from the bar.

Drath's voice thundered, "Imbecile! Look what you've done!"

Seated amidst the shards of shattered crockery was an orc, for his race could scarcely be disguised. An orc who wore not the snarling expression one would expect of his kind but, if such an emotion were even possible in his breed, a look of timidity. Drath's arm swung and Cullen winced as the man's fist connected with the side of the orc's head. For an instant, the creature's eyes gleamed with a wild light. But as Drath's arm drew back once more, another orc lumbered up and motioned firmly to the first, who hung his head and stared at the floor.

"Master Drath, Corbat's a clumsy worm and don't deserve your valuable time. If you'll permit, I'll punish him."

The placating words failed to stop the second blow, but after giving Corbat a solid kick in the ribs, Drath snarled at the other orc. "I've told you, if'n you can't train 'em any better, they aren't to be in the kitchen. The cost for that crockery's coming out of your wages, Lorgarth."

"Yes, Master Drath."

As Lorgarth unleashed a torrent of harsh sounding invectives on the hapless Corbat, who scuttled about gathering up the broken pieces of thick clay, Drath turned to fix Cullen with a baleful glare. "If'n it's not deadbeat turnip pullers, it's incompetent pot boys. How's a man expected to make a profit?"

Cullen's hand crept up unbidden to rub his ribs, and the wine churned sourly in his stomach.

Drath saw the movement and laughed, "You don't pay on time, farm boy, it'll be more'n your ribs that ache. They might not make good kitchen help, but Lorgarth's boys make right good debt collectors. Ain't that right, Lorgarth?"

With a kick to Corbat's backside that sent the orc flying through the door to the kitchen, Lorgarth turned pale yellow eyes on Cullen. The sharp points of carefully filed teeth gleamed in the torchlight as the orc curled his lips in an expression that set the youth swallowing convulsively.

"Enough of that now, Drath." Margul's silky voice broke the tension. "The lad will pay."

Drath snarled, "He better. And what concern is of yours anyhow, Margul?"

Margul fingered the bone-handled knife he wore at his waist. "'Tis my business because I choose to make it my business."

Drath looked from Margul to Cullen. "Fine words don't fill my coffers."

"Then I will buy the boy's debt from you. And hereafter you will leave him be, he will be indebted to me alone."

Lorgarth the orc raised his head sharply at this statement and made a motion as if to speak, then met the cold silver of Margul's gaze and turned away. The orc's movement and Drath's knowing nod went unremarked by Cullen, who gazed open mouthed in disbelief.

Stuttering slightly, the young man exclaimed, "Oh, no, sir. You couldn't."

Drawing a small, leather pouch from his tunic, Margul said, "My ventures lately have left my purse well filled. 'Tis up to you, Cullen. I am confident that you will repay me."

"Of course, I would. As soon as I possibly can."

"Then it is settled?" Margul waited for Cullen's agreement before saying, "Drath, the total, if you please."

Drath named a sum that caused the youth to wince. How could he have possibly spent that much in only a few weeks? 'Twas almost the amount his father had gotten for the sale of wheat last harvest. Cullen's eyes narrowed but he aimed his glance at the floor.

"Do you call me a liar, boy?" The bar owner's face hardened, then he sneered. "I've no cause to pad your accounts. They're plump enough without."

"No, sir." Cullen managed to square his shoulders and raise his head, for which he received an approving nod from Margul. "I'll not deny my debts."

Margul counted out the payment in silver and copper coins. "There, 'tis done. From here on out, your debt is with me."

It was testament to Cullen's naiveté that he did not recognize the look given him by Lorgarth as pity nor the one bestowed by Drath as vicious pleasure.

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

Gubbitch and Darien sat opposite each other at a cleared table. After shaking the box in which the Evens pieces were stored, Celebsul opened it, blindly selected one tile which he put in his pocket. He then took another and laid it on the table, face-up so that the three spots on the surface were visible. This detour from the standard game was an important part of the 'Extreme' version. An expert in a two-player match could memorise all the tiles that were played and thus, when they were down to the last few, predict accurately what the other player held. The unknown tile in the elf's pocket added an element of doubt. The second tile, to restore an equal number to be randomly allocated to the contestants, provided the match's starting point.

Gubbitch won the toss and elected to go first. As the orc and man began playing, Celebsul kept a tally of the scores on a scrap of paper. It was not a game that appealed to him usually, but he was enthralled to observe these two vying; he could almost hear the mental cogwheels whirring. Each tile sported from one to twelve spots on its surface. Gubbitch and Darien took turns to lay the pieces end-to-end. When the tile placed against a previous one resulted in an even sum of the spots, then Celebsul added the multiple of both tiles to the player's score. But, if the sum was odd, he subtracted the multiple. Normally, the player who accumulated the most points won. In this 'Extreme' version however, the player with an even score would win if the other ended up with an odd total, no matter how high.

The scores remained very close as the first few tiles grew into a long, snaking line. Aerio brought fresh tankards of ale across, peering at Gubbitch's tiles. Then the young elf encircled the table to look at Darien's. Finally he leant over Celebsul's shoulder, reading the scores. "Mm," was his only comment as he turned to pull up a nearby stool.

Darien possessed a clear lead by the time the last few tiles remained. Quite an audience looked on: several elves, Milo the hobbit, a pair of rangers, and a trio of travellers who were staying at the inn. Aerio wore a smirk that would grace the face of a cat left alone in a dairy parlour. Reflecting on this, Celebsul concluded that the young elf knew of some trick or other that one of the players was holding in reserve.

The common room fell remarkably quiet as the game drew towards its end. Gubbitch and Darien held just two tiles each, and it was the orc's turn. Keeping a close tally, Darien was certain that Gubbitch was holding two twelves. The other alternative would be a one and a twelve. He confirmed just a short while ago that the orc could not still own an odd tile. Darien had manipulated a situation with a seven at each end of the line. His opponent responded with a ten, thus losing seventy points. If the orc possessed a one, he would surely have played it then.

Gubbitch placed a twelve next to the two, ignoring the uneven five at the other end. Examining the tiles in his hand, a three and a four, Darien made the only sensible choice. He would put the four alongside the twelve, a game-winning move. The alternative would allow Gubbitch to place his final tile alongside the previous twelve, thereby gaining one hundred and forty four, and overtaking Darien's total. Glancing briefly at the orc's inscrutable face, Darien positioned his penultimate tile and smiled. His accumulated score, plus forty-eight, minus the three twelves that would result from the final piece, left him with an even total that was beyond the reach of any move left to the orc.

So why was Gubbitch grinning? With an inward groan, Darien finally understood the skill and cunning of his opponent. The orc wasn't playing for the highest score. That was why he had been willing to sacrifice seventy points rather than waste the tile with one spot that the gnarled hand now placed next to the four.

"Minus four points to me," the orc announced and winked cheerfully at Darien. "Ah think tha'll find it a lowish score … but not in the least odd. Now let's see thy last move."

Gubbitch gambled on Darien's apparent tendency to play the high numbers early. The man could be holding either a twelve or a three, but Gubbitch felt certain of the three. So, the choice at one end was three and one, and at the other, three and five, in either case, an uneven multiple which would impose its oddness on Darien's impressive final score.

Taking a pouch from his pocket, Darien counted out five golden coins and placed them before Gubbitch along with the last tile. He conceded with grace, "That was the best planned Evens strategy I have ever witnessed."

The small crowd, who had remained stone-like in the tense final moments, broke into cheers, patted the backs of the two players then dispersed to their own seats.

Celebsul retrieved the twelve-tile from his pocket and dropped it amongst the others. Taking up the box, he started to stack the pieces inside. Meanwhile, Gubbitch giggled gleefully as he examined the valuable coins and Darien sat in glum contemplation.

"What tha lookin' so sad abaht? It were a good game. Thy want thee coins back?"

Darien shook his head. "No, you won them fairly and it was a pleasure to be matched against such a skilful player. It is not so much what I lost, but what I failed to win."

Huffing, Gubbitch responded, "Did ah ever say ah wouldn't be a witness?"

A frown creased Darien's brow and his eyes narrowed. "You certainly implied as much."

"Ah were just joshin'. Tha's such a miserable chuff, ah thought tha could do wi' some fun."

"Fun!" The man could hardly catch his breath. "You call it fun to make me think I would be without one of the most important witnesses? Or maybe it was fun to hand over my gold?"

"Thy enjoyed game."

Opening his mouth to refute this, Darien realised that the orc was right. "True," he accepted, and started to rise to his feet. "I'll buy another round of drinks."

"Tha sit thee down. Ah'll buy ale. Ah'm feelin' generous."

Much later, Gubbitch set off home with his newly acquired gold, a bag of food, and a glowing smile on his face. Watching him leave from the porch, Darien felt more relaxed and optimistic. He would be meeting the band of orcs tomorrow, and from what Gubbitch reported, some of the 'lads' would have useful information.

xxx

_Travelling North_

As always, Odbut stayed clear of the road during his journey. Despite carrying two sacks, the orc made excellent time, sleeping for only a few hours at the height of each day. And the second sack, the one he would not reveal to his master, grew lighter on each occasion that Odbut paused for sustenance. He would reach the rendezvous easily despite the wooded terrain through which he skulked; a lone orc does not risk encounters with men, especially if he totes pieces of one on his back.

Risks and an onerous journey were well worth the rewards. Though he hated his master, he had acquired some of the same tastes, fine weapons and fancy clothes. Odbut also loved strong drink. Coin earnt from his duties allowed him to indulge … or did, before the latest 'assistant' got careless.

It was useless having money unless there was a 'tame' man to send into the city to buy things. No doubt the master would remedy that situation. Meanwhile, the other diversion his master provided would keep him entertained when he got back to his den.

Odbut cackled quietly to himself. '_Stay secret, follow orders, smile at the snake_.' Yes, the master might be icy and cruel, his punishments often fatal, but his rewards could make Odbut's black blood sing.

xxx

_17th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

An untidy group of orcs huddled in the trading field, wrapped up against a biting wind, as Celebsul and Darien rode in to meet them. When the elf dismounted, Titch ambled up to take the reins of his dapple-grey. Then the little orc waited, with an expression perilously close to that of a certain chamberlain, for Darien to hand over control of the bay gelding. Once in possession of both horses, Titch sat on the ground between them, muttering what sounded to be, if it were possible, orcish endearments. The elf had long since given up explaining that his mare did not need tending. It had become Titch's favourite, self-appointed role.

Darien and Celebsul walked up to the rest of the group just as Hooknose succeeded in coaxing a small campfire into flame. After greeting them, Gubbitch acquainted, or reacquainted Darien with the other orcs. He had brought along just four of his lads. Muggin and Masher were the pair whose story would most interest the man.

Soon a pan of water boiled over a cheerful blaze and battered mugs of tea warmed chilled hands. Man, elf and orcs sat in a circle around the fire, talking at first about the game of Evens from the previous night.

Allowing himself a few moments of pride, Gubbitch then changed the conversation to the main business. "Muggin, tha tell Darien abaht wot 'appened to thee an' Masher in Lebennin."

Two almost identical orcs turned to stare at the man. They had skin of a greener tinge than the other lads, wispy manes of black hair, and yellow eyes. Any hope Darien held that their apparent 'foreignness' might mean more readily understood dialects, quickly evaporated.

"Wot it were, were me 'an Masher were doin' fer this farmer like. Muckin' out owt as needed muckin' out like. Doin' owt 'e wanted doin' so 'e'd giy us sum grub. Tha sees?" At Darien's baffled look, Muggin attempted to clarify, "Fillin' us gob-oils … giyin us summat t' eyt."

Celebsul intervened. "I think it might help if I summarise what you are saying."

"Aye," Muggin agreed. "Tha put it in proper talk, like."

The elf paraphrased, "Muggin and Masher were doing odd jobs for a farmer in exchange for food."

At Darien's nod of understanding, Muggin went on. "We were gerrin on reet good, like, an' dint do nowt bad. Farmer were chuffed, like, but the' were some as dint like it, like, some as were chuffed off, like. Tha sees?"

And so the tale continued, with Celebsul explaining the meaning of Muggin's words. The two orcs worked well with the elderly farmer. He gained welcome assistance with the heavy duties that had taxed him since losing his farmhands during the war. In return, he ensured the orcs were well fed and housed. But word spread to nearby settlements, and many of the neighbours expressed anger or unhappiness about the situation. The farmer stood his ground until people started shunning him and his produce. In the end, he had no choice but to ask Muggin and Masher to move on. "Word has it that there are orcs living in peace up near Henneth Annûn," he explained, handing them generous rations and a few coins. Grateful for these gifts, and not wishing to cause the farmer further problems, the orcs went reluctantly on their way. From the advice the farmer offered, and more than a little luck, Muggin and Masher met up with Gubbitch and his lads without running into trouble.

At Darien's request for the location of the farm and its owner's name, Masher scratched a rough map in the earth with a twig, then turned a gappy smile towards the man. "Anduin," he said, pointing to the biggest line. "South Rooad," he went on. And thus they eventually gleaned that the farm had been west of where the River Erui crossed the South Road. The farmer's name, as far as could be discerned, was Oswyn. Darien had a destination.

xxx

TBC ...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_18th February  
__Travelling South_

Cullen sat atop a fine black steed, nothing like the plump ponies or heavy farm horses he usually rode. And to add to his new stature, he wore a bright, sharp sword at his hip. Margul loaned both mount and weapon to him, and though Cullen's clothes, his finest, were yet those of a farmhand, that would soon be remedied.

His new master had asked him to deliver a package to a gentleman in Minas Tirith, explaining how much payment should be expected in return. The amount made Cullen's eyes almost pop out of his head. Margul told him to then take a portion of that payment to outfit himself in a manner suitable to his new role as Margul's right-hand man. This 'allowance' was almost equal to the debt that Cullen owed, but Margul dismissed the suggestion that the youth could use it instead to repay him.

"As you have agreed to work for me, I need you to appear as someone of substance. For tasks that do not require a personable appearance, I can use orcs or other minions. I have ambitions for you, Cullen. Visit the expensive tailors and smiths in the city; buy the best clothes and the finest dagger you can find."

So Cullen rode towards Minas Tirith with a cheerful heart and a sealed sack that bounced against his saddle. He had strict instructions that Margul's seal must not be broken except by the man it was destined for. This was not a problem to Cullen. He possessed little curiosity; just enough to ask, "What is it?"

Margul had grasped the youth firmly by the shoulders and explained in a soft but steely tone, "My business, Cullen. What I need from you is complete and utter trust, and an ability to follow my instructions to the letter. In time, when you have proven your reliability, I will take you into my confidences. As you have noticed, my dealings are lucrative. That is why I keep them secret; otherwise everyone would want to share in them. And that, Cullen, would be less money for me, and ultimately, less money for you."

It made sense; Cullen had promised his loyalty. He had then taken pleasure in informing his father that his skills were to be better rewarded elsewhere. The farm that once seemed a realm to the youth, now lay like a squalid few acres of pointless toil.

Tiroc had been angry … furious. But Cullen promised that his new work would keep him away from taverns and allow him to settle his debts. In truth, he fully intended that his earnings would enrich his family; Cullen believed he would free his parents and siblings from drudgery and, at last, win the respect of them all.

A firm kick in the horse's ribs set his pace to a canter. As the miles rolled by, Cullen mused on which colour and cut of shirt he would buy, whether to have a dagger with a deer-horn hilt or one of rarer ivory. For his mother, he would bring a necklace, for his father, a fine walking stick, and for his sister, a few yards of silk. Margul had agreed to this, adding the extra allowance to the youth's debt. But Cullen no longer worried about money; his master was both wealthy and generous. The youth also spared no thought for the sack that now bounced more loudly against his saddle.

xxx

_20th February  
__Minas Tirith_

The house in Minas Tirith was the grandest Cullen had ever seen, let alone been invited into. He sat in a velvet-padded chair, gazing around the ornately decorated room. No fire burnt in the hearth and the atmosphere felt chill. While he sipped on dry, pale wine alien to his palette, he tried to assume an air of confidence that his churning stomach contradicted.

"I've brought you what you requested from Margul. He asked that you check its authenticity and then pass the payment to me." The wavering in his voice was not noticeable, he hoped.

An elderly and very corpulent man sat opposite, squeezed tightly into a large armchair. He nursed the sealed sack like a pet cat, and his short, heavy breaths produced an audible wheeze. Finally he spoke, his words bourn upon ragged gasps, "And do you know _what_ you have brought me?"

The man's breathlessness did not prevent his voice from mesmerising. Cullen controlled an urge to shudder. "No, I don't. That is a matter between my master and you, sir."

The man smiled, his pallid eyes almost disappearing into the folds of skin wreathing his face. Fat, wet lips formed an expression of malicious pleasure that made Cullen's innards curdle.

"So be it. Stay here, boy, while I examine the contents."

Struggling heavily to his feet, the man left the room; with him went the air of oppressive threat. Cullen mulled on the last statement. How he hated being called 'boy'. When the money was in his hands, he would buy clothes such that he would never be addressed so again. If it meant using the little set aside for gifts for his family, so be it.

xxx

_22nd February  
__Oswyn's_ _Farm_

After five days of riding at an even pace, Darien finally arrived at the farm where Muggin and Masher once worked. A woman stood in the yard, hanging washing on a line. Darien dismounted and walked towards her, leading his horse.

Pivoting round at the sound of hooves on the paved yard, the woman eyed him warily. "Who are you?" she called out.

"I've come to talk to Farmer Oswyn."

"Have you indeed? And what's your name and business?"

As he drew closer, he noted that the woman would be pretty if not for her expression and the apparent injuries. A yellowing bruise on her cheek marred the pale skin. A smaller but fresher bruise swelled an eyelid, almost hiding one of her vivid green eyes. The tumble of golden brown curls that fell below her shoulders looked unkempt, though her smock was tidy and clean.

Darien decided she probably had good cause to scowl. He quietly replied to her challenge. "I am Darien, Lord of Silverbrook of the Blackroot Vale, and I have important questions to ask of Oswyn, and of his neighbours."

Muggin and Masher had not mentioned a woman living at the farm, so he added, "May I ask who you are?"

"I'm Avis, niece of Oswyn." Each word was clipped; she seemed resentful of his presence and totally unimpressed by his title.

Darien gritted his teeth against this unexpected hostility, and persisted. "Is Oswyn around?"

Responding with a sudden anger, words poured from the woman's mouth, "He's dead … murdered five days ago. Stabbed in the back by orcs. Oswyn was a fool. He let the creatures work for him. Wouldn't listen to sense. Then the orcs robbed and killed him … as they'd planned to all along."

"Which orcs?" Darien's mind reeled from the news.

"Called them Muggin … and Masher … or something like that."

"But they left weeks ago!"

"Doesn't stop them coming back …" She hesitated, then her good eye closed almost as narrowly as the injured one. "And how do you know that they left weeks ago?"

Taking control of the deteriorating situation, Darien spoke emphatically, "In the same way as I know they didn't kill Oswyn. Six days ago Muggin and Masher were talking to me in Northern Ithilien."

Avis fell silent; she wobbled slightly, as if the ground were no longer firm beneath her feet. Watching expressions flee rapidly across her face, Darien tried to explore what had happened. "Something was stolen?"

"Money, valuables," the woman responded automatically; her thoughts seemed elsewhere.

"If orcs had attacked this farm, madam, there would not be a building standing or a beast remaining in the fields. I know. It has happened to me."

The woman brought her attention back to Darien. "Tobias said these orcs are cunning. They've learnt to exploit the foolhardy. There are now places and people willing to take their ill-gotten coins without question. They don't need to do more than befriend vulnerable people, find out where they keep their wealth, then murder and rob them."

"And who is Tobias?"

"My husband. He begged Oswyn to be allowed to assist again in the running of the farm rather than have the help of those foul creatures."

This confused Darien. "Assist again? If your husband once worked the farm, why would your uncle refuse such an offer?"

Folding her arms in front of her, a gesture of defence or defiance, Avis explained, "My uncle bore a grudge against Tobias. He was unreasonable, finding fault where there was none. Tobias worked long and hard, but Oswyn was never satisfied. In the end, he turned us out, leaving my husband, myself and our little boy homeless."

"Where are your husband and son?"

Again her eye narrowed, but she answered. "They're out working the fields. This is our farm now. I and my son are the only remaining relatives of Oswyn."

Glancing to the wet clothes on the line, Darien remarked, "Your son cannot be more than a toddler; very young to be working farmland."

"He's old enough to learn honest toil." The words sounded mechanical; though they came from her mouth, Darien doubted that they came from her thoughts. However, her next utterance held clear conviction. "And I've honest toil of my own still untended. I'll bid you be off our land and take your important questions elsewhere."

"One moment, please, then I'll go." He interpreted her rigid lack of response as a signal to continue. "Are the local law-keepers satisfied that orcs killed your uncle?"

"Of course they are. Tobias himself saw orcs skulking around just a couple of days before Oswyn was found dead, and the guards said the stab wounds were made by an orcish blade."

"And are these guards convinced that it was the same two orcs who worked for your uncle?"

Sighing in the manner of someone trying to explain the obvious to a fool, Avis enunciated carefully, "Tobias saw them when they worked here. He said it was definitely the same ones hanging around just before Oswyn was murdered. He's given the guards a full description. And they are circulating that all over the kingdom. They've assured me that those responsible for my uncle's death will not escape punishment."

"But as I told you earlier, madam, six days ago I spoke to Muggin and Masher in Northern Ithilien."

The repeated statement did not have the same impact this time round. "I don't know who you are, Lord Whatever, or why you would be talking to any of those foul beings. But I'm quite certain that the two orcs who worked for my uncle are the same that killed him. Take your foolish questions to the King's Guards, see what they think of them."

"I shall. Where is their station?"

"In the village of Deerham, less than a half-hour up that track." She pointed then turned and walked stiffly away towards the house.

"Good day to you," Darien called after her, but he received no reply.

xxx

_Riding North_

Cullen rode towards home in what he already termed his 'Travelling Outfit'; high black boots, thickly woven riding britches, a matching deep blue tunic and a black cloak that the tailor guaranteed would hold off all but the heaviest weather. In a package strapped to his saddle, two other outfits were neatly folded, and secured in a separate pack, another pair of boots, an ivory-handled dagger and some inexpensive confections for his family to share.

The youth was overwhelmingly pleased. He had survived the grand home with its sinister occupant. The relief he felt on leaving that mansion still ran though his veins. Never before, he finally admitted to himself, had he known such cold but unaccountable fear. Cullen suddenly snorted with mirth, he must be developing an imagination; after all, it was just some old, fat man who could hardly breathe, let alone move. What could the ancient dolt have done? Maybe poison his drink - it had tasted like poison. But why would he? Cullen was just the delivery b… man.

Cullen straightened his back and jutted out his chin. From here on, nobody would intimidate him. He had a wealthy master and he owned fine possessions. The merchants of Minas Tirith had treated him with respect, fawning on his needs, bringing forth ever-finer goods. That each of these cost a little more than the previous was to be expected. The artisans gradually acknowledged Cullen's worth, their speech growing more deferential and fair as he shunned the shoddier offerings.

Two nights in the city had opened his eyes. What passed for entertainment in Henneth Annûn dimmed into insignificance compared with the pleasures on offer in Minas Tirith. He would make his fortune with the help of Margul, then move to the capital where his qualities would find true appreciation.

xxx

_Deerham_

The village of Deerham was no more than a few thatched cottages, a couple of shops, and a small tavern. Its main function, Darien supposed, was to serve as a focal point for the community of farms in the surrounding area. No doubt a market took place in the main square once or twice a week, with occasional summer parties celebrated around the duck pond on the green.

A sign marked out one of the cottages as a Guard Station, serving almost the same purpose as a Ranger Station, but manned by soldiers. Darien made this his first port of call. He found only a youth in attendance. The young man informed him that all three guards were out on their rounds - they had a lot of territory to cover and would not be back until suppertime. Saying he would return later, Darien suppressed his irritation at yet another delay and went to see if he could find a room at the tavern.

The quaint establishment proclaimed itself to be The Merry Jug. As soon as he arrived on the doorstep, a young lad came out asking if he intended to stay at the tavern. When Darien confirmed that he did, the boy offered to take his horse to the stables. Gratified to find time-honoured traditions maintained in such a tiny hamlet, Darien retrieved his saddlebags, handed over the reigns, and stepped inside.

He was pleasantly surprised. The bar seemed cosy, clean and inviting. A carpeted area in one corner sported upholstered chairs though most of the room was furnished with the usual wooden floors, tables and trestles, suitable for workers coming straight from the fields.

Behind the bar, a plump man, with sandy hair and a salt-and-pepper moustache, studiously polished a metal tankard. He looked up from his task and called out, "Good afternoon, Sir. I'm Dunstan the Innkeeper. I take it that, as you've handed your horse over to my son, you're wanting a room for the night."

Darien walked over to complete the introduction. "Good afternoon, Dunstan. I'm Darien and would indeed like a room. A drink of ale would also be very welcome."

"Aye," the innkeeper agreed, putting down the polished tankard and reaching for another. "I was just thinking the same. A quiet drink before the place gets busy." Dunstan proceeded to fill both tankards with frothing ale. "We don't get too many visitors, mainly regular traders and the like. Do you mind me asking whether you're staying in the area or just passing through?"

"I'm not sure as yet," Darien replied. "I travelled here to see Oswyn at the farm down the track, but …"

The look on Dunstan's face as he passed a brimming tankard across confirmed that the innkeeper was well acquainted with the situation. "Aye, poor Oswyn. I miss him. We used to chat. He was a good farmer and a good man."

"Oh? I had the impression that local people regarded him as a fool or worse for taking in orcs."

Dunstan frowned slightly, and replied cryptically, "Some did - some didn't."

"I'm sorry." Darien thought he ought to offer an explanation. "It is just that I have heard rumours … and his niece seems upset that he refused the help of her husband on the farm."

The innkeeper's frown deepened. "And Oswyn told me that he would trust those two orcs above his niece's husband every time."

"Really? Why had he taken so much against the man?"

Dunstan scrutinised his guest briefly, maybe wondering how much to say. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Oswyn thought Tobias, the husband, was hard ... no … cruel with Avis and the child. He disapproved of the marriage even before it took place. Said that Tobias had a mean streak."

"But he let him work on the farm at one time?"

"Aye, he did, after the wedding. Wanted him where he could keep an eye on him to make sure Avis was safe. Then the babe was born, and Oswyn had two of them to worry about."

"So why did he throw all three off his farm?"

"He didn't. But he'd seen marks on both Avis and her son, though the lass always said they were caused by accidents. It was no accident that Oswyn witnessed when he saw Tobias whipping one of the farm horses. That he couldn't stomach. He pleaded with Avis to stay on with the child, but he had to get rid of Tobias. Avis is a lovely girl, not that we see much of her, but she's besotted with her husband. And there are others that think him a Gift of Eru. He has a way with words - one of those silver-tongued types who flatters you to your face and then stabs you in the back."

"Oswyn was stabbed in the back." Darien observed coolly before taking a mouthful of ale.

"Aye, but by orcs if the evidence is to be believed. Tobias wanted that pair gone. He raised most of the fuss about them, got people fired up. Myself, I couldn't see the harm. They helped Oswyn keep going. It was a struggle for him after he sent them away. Tobias maybe thought that Oswyn would hand over the farm to Avis when he'd no one left to help him. But Oswyn fully intended to keep going until his niece came to her senses and left her husband. Too late now, she's made her bed and must lie in it. But that poor child …"

Nodding, Darien said, "I only met Avis. I did not see this Tobias."

"As you're staying over, you will. He comes in here every night. Not that he's a heavy drinker, usually, but he likes to socialise."

"What do you mean by 'he's not a heavy drinker, usually'?"

Dunstan reflected for a moment then answered, "He's been drinking rather more than is his wont in the last few days."

The tavern door opened to admit two customers, bringing the conversation about Tobias to a close. Darien finished his drink and enquired about his room. The innkeeper called his wife, a short but ample woman with a ready smile. She led Darien up a winding staircase then on to a small, neat room with a beamed ceiling that sloped towards a window shadowed by thatch. Darien spent what remained of the afternoon making notes and mulling over the whole Oswyn saga. After an early supper that the innkeeper's wife brought to his room, Darien freshened his appearance and made his way back to the Guards' Station.

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

"Erin, if you knead that any more, the bread will turn out hard as saddle leather."

The hobbit lass glanced up with a start to spy the dimpled smile of her friend and workmate, Meri. She looked down at the heavy blob of dough under her hands and shrugged with chagrin.

"Sorry, Meri. I guess I was woolgathering."

"I guess you were." The other hobbit gave a saucy wink as she turned back to dicing vegetables for supper preparations. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"Just everything, I suppose." Pulling a large bowl close, Erin scooped up the heavy dough and flopped it in with a meaty plop. "You have to admit the doings lately are a bit odd. Can you imagine Master Darien actually trying to change laws for our orcs?"

The quick clunk of the knife never slowed as Meri replied. "He is a good man. He's just trying to make up for his mistakes. You've seen how sad and quiet he gets."

"Oh, I know that." Erin flipped a linen towel over the bowl and pushed it back out of any drafts for the bread to rise a second time. "But it's going to mean some queer changes, mark my words. I'm not sure Gubbitch and his lads really even understand what it's all about."

"They probably don't," Meri allowed, as she scooped an orange mound of diced carrots aside and reached for a fat white onion. "After all, they've never known any laws but the boot and the lash. The Shire got just enough of that from Sharkey's men to know how dreadful it is to live so."

Both hobbits solemnly shook their heads at memory of the occupation of the Shire, when foul human agents of the wizard Saruman, known then simply as Sharkey, had cruelly dominated their peaceful lives. Those had been dark days which altered forever the humble hobbits' understandings of the world.

Erin dusted off her hands and grabbed a cloth to begin wiping the bread board. "Well, whatever happens, I hope Lord Faramir and the King are paying close attention. Sevi is mixed up in this too, which means all of us are involved."

"And we take care of our own," Meri said with a firm nod.

With a sudden giggle Erin added, "Even Gubbitch and his lads. Did you see Master Darien's face when Gubbitch beat him at Evens? Oh, that was priceless!"

The hobbits giggled together as their nimble hands kept on with their work.

"I wish we had flowers for the tables," Erin said suddenly. "I don't know why I am so anxious for flowers this year, but I am."

"We had a long winter. That was a lot of snow for this country, and I think we just didn't expect it."

"Yes, and now Sev and Anardil are away off to the Eastern Borders - I do hope all goes well for them. Trading in new country can be risky."

Meri laughed, a sudden gay tinkle of sound. "Don't tell me you're wishing you went with them! I'd think you've had quite enough of adventures, dear hobbit!"

"Oh, no, not went with them. But I worry about them, of course, even if Sev is very clever and Anardil very brave." Pausing, Erin frowned at the flour-crusted rag in her hand. "I think I simply would like a little trip to town. Don't you agree? Just a little visit to Henneth Annûn to see what people are doing and hear some news that's not three days old."

"Not by yourself you don't!" Meri's stare was aghast.

"Of course not! But maybe … oh, maybe when Sevi is home. I know she'll want to go into town with her new wares."

With a stern look, Meri replied, "That I might be willing to put up with. But no running off into mischief without someone there to pull you out! I know how you are."

They looked at each other, but Meri's hobbit face was simply not made for severity and both lasses dissolved into giggles.

"I promise, Meri. I won't go anywhere or do anything foolish, and I'll be sure to mind my P's and Q's the whole time I'm there."

"That's only if Sev is willing to put up with you. Hey!" Laughing, Meri yelped as her friend flung a gob of dough.

Then the kitchen door opened to another smiling hobbit face. "Hello, girls. I hope we have some food left, as we have a tall, hungry mouth out here."

"Oh, thank you, Camellia!"

As footsteps thumped out in the common room, both lasses scooted to the door and peered past Camellia's shoulder. There a tall man in riding clothes was just taking off his cloak, and on the breast of his leather jerkin was blazoned the sigil of the King's royal messengers, the White Tree of Gondor. He smiled as he saw the merry threesome in the kitchen doorway.

"Hello, ladies. Can a starving traveler beg a little bread, despite the late hour? Just a wee dry crust is all I crave."

All three blushed at his unabashedly flirtatious grin, and Meri quickly mustered a mock frown.

"Alin, you are nothing but mischief. Of course we have food. Just sit you down and behave."

"Thank you most kindly." As he sat, the messenger smiled and slung a leather tube from a strap about his shoulder. "And if you can tell me where Captain Halbarad might be found, I have a confidential dispatch for him."

xxx

_Deerham_

On arrival at the station, Darien was invited into a low, narrow room that served as an office. Here he met Gethrod, the captain of the soldiers in Deerham. Unlike the Rangers at The Burping Troll, this man did not possess Numenorean blood, as testified by his shock of brown hair and dark eyes. There were insufficient Rangers to patrol the entire realm, so Gondorian soldiers were posted to ensure that even the most remote settlements had access to the law.

"What can I help you with?" Gethrod asked amiably.

"You have a warrant out for two orcs for the murder of Farmer Oswyn?"

"Aye, we do, and a good description for once. To most people, orc all look the same, but this time we can be sure of getting the real culprits."

Darien kept his thoughts to himself. "Would you let me see the description?"

"Certainly." Gethrod reached for a bundle of papers, located the correct one and passed it across the desk.

Reading quickly through, Darien returned the paper and remarked, "Excellent, very detailed, down to the matching nose rings."

"Aye. And you'll have seen we have actual names, Muggin and Masher. The warrant will have reached most stations in the region by now. What is your interest? Have you had trouble from these two?"

Darien shook his head. "No, not at all. They were very helpful when I met them in Northern Ithilien last week."

The captain opened his mouth to speak then closed it with a snap as a furrow creased in his brow.

Darien anticipated the questions that would follow. "I met them the day before Oswyn was killed. And it was definitely the Muggin and Masher who used to work for the farmer; it was on their say-so that I travelled here to find him. And there are reliable witnesses to our meeting which the local Rangers will be able to vouch for."

"Mm," Gethrod's mouth now twisted as he mulled over the news. "I'll have to validate that of course, but if it wasn't those orcs … Hm, maybe what Tobias saw was wishful thinking and it was different orcs. He really didn't like Muggin and Masher, but then neither did a lot of people. It got a bit heated at one time, but we made it very clear that unwarranted violence would not be tolerated. We held that view long before receiving recent orders to the same effect." The captain peered closely at Darien, as if wondering whether the man knew about Faramir's latest 'advice'. "I'll send word first thing in the morning. I take it that the station in question is The Burping Troll?"

Darien nodded.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention." Gethrod said, then asked, "Why were you looking for Oswyn?"

"I'm conducting an investigation into orcs who choose to live amongst men."

"Interesting. I wouldn't mind a chat with you about that at some time." Gethrod leant back indicating an end to the interview. "And I'd appreciate it if you could stay locally until we receive confirmation of your testimony."

Rising to his feet, Darien assured the captain, "Of course. I'll be at The Merry Jug."

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

"This is ridiculous!" Halbarad exclaimed, slapping his palm with the rolled up warrant.

Celebsul raised an eyebrow but said nothing. What more was there to say? On the seventeenth he and Darien had talked to Muggin and Masher in the Trading Field. This fact Halbarad already knew, though his visit to the elf's workshop was prompted by a desire to hear it repeated. On the eighteenth, a man called Oswyn had been murdered on his farm near the village of Deerham. This was news to both of them, though no doubt also another fact.

Two events one day apart, but separated by a distance impossible to travel in less than four days, unless the orcs had access to either an eagle or a dragon. But even if that were a possibility - and they had given the idea brief consideration - the eyewitness quoted in the warrant saw the orcs near Deerham on the 16th. To think that Muggin and Masher had flown from their caves to Deerham and back twice in the space of three days was indeed ridiculous.

Strict duty dictated that Halbarad should arrest the orcs. But logic concluded it would be a waste of time and a totally unnecessary injustice. The Ranger Captain stared quietly out of the workshop window as he imagined confronting Muggin and Masher, taking them into custody on suspicion of murder. They would be terrified. There had been quite enough trouble caused by the suggestion of letting the little uruk-hai, Nik, face justice after he killed an orc hunter in self-defence. That matter would remain unresolved until orcs were given some form of legal recognition. Though Muggin and Masher had not, could not have committed the crime they were charged with, they could easily be executed for it, without even the formality of a trial.

Halbarad shook his head sharply and looked at the elf. "Darien should have reached the farm by now, and heard of Oswyn's death."

"Yes, and with his tenaciousness, he will no doubt make a lot of enquiries." Celebsul remarked.

"I certainly hope so." Halbarad tapped his chin with the offending scroll. "He will be able to disabuse the Deerham soldiers of their certainty that any of our orcs are involved … if they believe him."

"No doubt they would send word to you asking for confirmation of Darien's report."

"Yes, any official would. I think I might shorten the process. I'll write to explain that there are witnesses to prove that the orcs are innocent, and that Lord Darien is one of those witnesses."

Halbarad stood up to leave, his course now set. "I'll send the letter immediately." Then he walked across the room, adding, "Though even using the swiftest messengers, it will take four days to get there."

As he stepped through the door, the ranger heard Celebsul's response. "Unless you borrow Muggin's dragon."

xxx

_Deerham_

"That's Tobias," the innkeeper murmured, with a nod of his head.

Darien sat at the bar, slowly sipping a tankard of ale. He turned to see a man of maybe thirty years, not as tall as himself, but of solid, muscular build, blonde, square featured and thick necked.

Judging by the smiles and calls that greeted his entrance, Tobias was popular, particularly with the younger men and the few women in the tavern. He called for 'his usual' and took a seat at a table with two other men of about the same age as himself.

Shortly after, Gethrod and two other soldiers came in for a drink. They exchanged friendly words with Tobias and his companions, and Gethrod acknowledged Darien with a brief nod.

The Merry Jug seemed to be an apt name for the tavern, Darien mused as he listened to the frequent outbursts of laughter around the room. It was a pleasant atmosphere. However, while he still sipped his first tankard of ale, Tobias was drinking his fourth. This did not stop the blonde man from joining in a game of cards, nor putting a good few coins on the table to wager with.

The innkeeper returned from taking Tobias and his friends yet another round of drinks. Standing behind the bar, Dunstan looked across at the table and shook his head. He commented quietly to Darien, "It doesn't pay to gamble on a gut full of ale."

"Someone has to win. All three are drinking rather a lot."

"Aye, but the other two are pacing themselves, and lining their pockets. Tobias has reached into his for more coins at least twice. He usually has more sense. I don't know what's got into him."

The night was growing late when the blonde man lurched unsteadily from his chair, calling out cheerful if somewhat slurred goodbyes. On a hunch born of curiosity, Darien went outside shortly after. It was not difficult to trail a drunkard in the dark, especially one so apparently engrossed in his own thoughts. Once away from the village, Tobias' demeanour changed. Several times he paused to viciously kick stones off the path. He muttered words that Darien could not catch, though their tone was angry.

About halfway along the track, the blonde man made a sudden detour into a stand of trees. Darien imagined that this was necessary after so much ale, but the sound of metal rattling gave him cause to creep quietly into the undergrowth some distance from his quarry.

Tobias crouched over a metal chest, filling his pockets with selected coins. He closed the lid and placed the container into a circle of large rocks, before heaving another heavy stone on top. Darien watched the man go. He would follow him no further.

Waiting quietly for a few minutes, Darien returned to the path to check it was clear, then he made his way to the cairn. It took a deal more effort for him to remove the top stone than it had Tobias, but he managed. Withdrawing and opening the chest, vague suspicions that had nagged him since hearing of Oswyn's death came suddenly into bold relief. The chest contained a stash of money and jewellery - and an orc blade.

xxx

TBC ...


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_23rd February  
__Deerham_

After breakfast at The Merry Jug, Darien sought another audience with the soldier captain. He reported what he had witnessed the previous night when he had followed Tobias.

"I've only just sent a message to The Burping Troll," Gethrod responded. "It will be at least eight days till I hear back. Why, in the meantime, am I expected to take your word over that of someone I have known since he was a lad? How do I know you didn't hide the chest yourself in an attempt to incriminate an innocent man?"

Darien shrugged. "You don't, and I would not expect you to take my word on something so important. But I would expect you to investigate, and to do so with some stealth."

"You're suggesting we do as you did, and follow him?"

"The only way you can be sure that Tobias hid the chest is if you see him go to it. He went there last night apparently to replenish the money he lost gambling. It seems there is a good chance of that situation being repeated."

Darien watched the captain's mental struggle. He was clearly one of those who liked Tobias, and he equally clearly did not like Darien's news. But Gethrod was also responsible for local law and order, and it was unlikely he would ignore the possibility that Tobias was a murderer.

"I'll think about what you said and decide on the best course," the captain stated. "I trust you will keep this information confidential."

"Certainly," Darien agreed before taking his leave.

xxx

The innkeeper had given Darien the names of a few people who might be willing to talk to him about their reactions to Muggin and Masher moving into the area. He thus spent the rest of the day travelling round a handful of local farms and smallholdings. Mostly, he received friendly welcomes. No one that he talked to liked the idea of orcs living nearby, but they had sympathised with Oswyn's plight. So many men were lost in the war that it was difficult to find farmhands. As a result, much land lay fallow and it was backbreaking work just to eke out a half-decent living.

Riding back to Deerham, Darien bore in mind that the innkeeper had carefully picked out the people he had visited, and most of them were of the older generation. He imagined that more hostile receptions might meet him when he tried the other farms. However, try he would. He needed to hear all sides.

He took his supper in what he thought of as the 'cosy corner' of The Merry Jug, enjoying the luxury of an upholstered chair. The food was tasty, if not up to hobbit standard, and there was plenty of it. By the time his plates were cleared away, the small room had once again filled with customers. Tobias sat at the same table, in the same chair as the night before, and a feeling of unreality gripped Darien as he watched the previous evening replayed. It was a relief to see Captain Gethrod eventually come in with just one other soldier. That at least broke the pattern.

Gethrod greeted everyone in the tavern before bringing his tankard over to the corner in which Darien sat. The captain settled back in a chair facing the room, and the other soldier, a younger man with a beard, joined him.

Nodding to Darien, Gethrod said, "You two haven't met. This is my second-in-command, Tilmith. Tilmith, this is Darien, a visitor to our village."

Introductions made, the three fell silent. Darien noted the soldiers only sipped at their ale, much as he was doing. They were on duty and they were good. It was not apparent that they watched one person in particular as their eyes casually swept the room.

Occasionally, Gethrod and Tilmith exchanged words, even bringing Darien in on the conversation. It seemed the third member of their team was away on an investigation of missing chickens. An old farming woman had asked someone to stay the night to witness the culprits. She was convinced it was orcs; the guards were more inclined to suspect a fox. However, each and every complaint needed to be taken seriously. It was their duty. That the woman had a very beautiful granddaughter in no way influenced the youngest of the soldiers to volunteer for the mission.

Once again The Merry Jug earnt its name, but the night wore on, and eventually Tobias staggered out once more, his pockets empty.

Gethrod, suddenly stern, looked to Darien, "You wait here with Tilmith." Then he headed for the door.

"What now?" Darien asked the bearded soldier.

"Nothing, I hope. The captain will come back with no news and we'll all go to bed." As an afterthought, Tilmith added, "He's told me what you reported seeing last night."

"And what if your captain sees the same?"

Tilmith sighed heavily. "Then we have an arrest to make."

xxx

A bright moon sailed in the night sky but the three riders paid her little heed as they trotted towards their destination. Gethrod and Tilmith rode to the fore as they approached the farm. Thus the soldiers witnessed events before Darien, though all heard the screams and shouts. Running towards them, barefoot in a white nightgown stained with blood, a sobbing, gasping Avis. She did not even notice that rescue was at hand, her head turning every few seconds to see her husband closing the distance. Tobias wore only leggings, but the sword he wielded glittered ominously in the moonlight. The soldiers pulled up their horses, quickly dismounted, and raced towards Avis, intent on her protection.

As she finally saw them she cried out hoarsely, "Help me please. He's trying to kill me." Then in a pitiful voice, strangled with tears and horror, "He killed Oswyn."

Remaining mounted, Darien fingered the hilt of his small-sword and watched the situation carefully. He had insisted on coming along for the arrest, but promised to stay out of any action. They had not been expecting this. Gethrod pulled the woman to him, holding her close with one arm, his other already brandished a blade. But a fight was no longer imminent; Tobias stood frozen, some distance away, no doubt considering his options.

In the ensuing stillness, Darien's acute hearing caught a faint sound, a child's despairing plea, "No, Daddy, no."

His heart twisted in his chest. Peering into the darkness, Darien could just make out the tiny figure in a pale nightshirt standing outside the farmhouse. Then his eyes were drawn to movement nearer by; Tobias had spun around and was now running back towards his son. Fearing the man's intent, Darien urged his horse forward in pursuit. The war-trained bay responded with instant speed, a flat-out gallop that rapidly closed the distance on the man. Darien loosed his feet from the stirrups and readied himself for a leap. As the horse drew level with Tobias, Darien did two things at once: he shouted the battle command for the bay to halt, and he threw himself from the saddle onto the man's back.

Tobias fell heavily, breath, sense and sword knocked from him. The small child stood just yards away. Staying astride the stunned man, Darien commanded the boy urgently, "Run to your mother … NOW!" The tear-stained face just stared back in wide-eyed confusion. Tobias could recover at any moment, so Darien shouted the order, "GO!"

The lad set off running. Darien relaxed briefly, twisting round to watch him on his way. Suddenly Tobias started struggling. Lurching violently, the fallen man was quickly regaining his freedom so Darien punched him heavily on the back of the head. The response was a roar and a mighty heave of Tobias' naked back. Darien was unseated, but grabbed at the arm reaching out towards the lethal sword. He encountered skin slick with sweat, and muscles stronger than his own. Despite this, Darien made no move for his own blade. He would not risk killing Tobias, not with his son nearby, not with the truth untold. Instead he grasped the man's wrist and wrenched the arm backwards. Tobias twisted with the movement; swinging his powerful body round, he delivered a stunning blow to the side of Darien's head that sent him sprawling.

With the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, Darien blinked, clearing his blurred vision just in time to see the sword raised above him. He rolled, hearing the savage slam of a blade biting into the ground where his head had lain just a split-second before. The upswing of the same sword was audible as Darien made an ungainly grab for the man's legs. He received a sharp kick in the throat. Choking, Darien finally reached for his blade as he looked up to see the sword lifting yet again … then something hissed and thudded, knocking Tobias backwards. The man rocked on his feet for a moment, the sword fell to the ground, then Tobias crumpled, clutching at the arrow in his chest.

Gethrod ran up seconds later, bow in hand. "I couldn't reach you in time. It all happened too quickly. I shot as soon as I was close enough to see that he was trying to kill you."

The captain walked over to examine Tobias who was now slumped on one side. "What a miserable situation."

Shaking his head, Gethrod called out into the night, "Tilmith, keep Avis and the boy back there. We'll be along in a minute."

He turned back to Darien. "Are you able to stand?"

"I think so." Severe pain started seeping into Darien's head, neck, and several other places. He spat out blood and lifted his hand to the captain for assistance. Gethrod obliged, and then held onto his arm as Darien found himself dizzy and unsteady.

"You look terrible," the captain observed with candour typical of a soldier. "But you'll look a lot worse in the morning. I'm not sure how badly injured Avis is either. We need to get you both to a healer."

"Is Tobias dead?"

"Yes. No need for him to go anywhere but into the house for the night."

"I'll help you." Darien began limping towards the body. Somehow, in the last few desperate moments, he had twisted an ankle.

"No you won't. We'll go back to Tilmith and then he can help me. You can keep an eye on Avis and the boy."

So while the soldiers set about arrangements for the body, and rigging a cart to carry the woman and her son, Darien joined Avis in her refuge, sitting behind a fence, well hidden from the house. She was staring out unseeing, crooning softly to the silent child curled across her legs. One of her hands ruffled the lad's hair, the other rested, palm upwards on the ground beside her. That hand was covered in blood.

Without asking, Darien lifted her wide sleeve and checked that the wound in her arm had been dressed. It had; probably by Tilmith, certainly in haste, but it would do for the present. "Is that your only injury?"

She fell silent and slowly turned her head towards him. "Aye. The freshest of them at least, if we talk of wounds of the body. Had he been less drunk, he would not have stumbled and missed his main target."

Darien had seen for himself that Tobias preferred to hack rather than stab. He was no swordsman, more a butcher.

Now she had started talking, Avis seemed to want to go on. "Thank you for rescuing Loni … my son … Lonhir, really. My husband would have used him as a hostage, I'm sure of that … Where is Tobias?"

Uncertain of her likely reaction, Darien nevertheless answered as honestly as he dared. "I'd rather not say in front of the child, but Tobias will not be travelling back with us."

Her eyes widened in fear. "He didn't get away, did he?"

"No … no, he didn't."

"Thank Eru, and don't worry about Loni, he will be better without his father." She looked down at the boy whose eyes gazed back at her with an unfathomable expression.

Continuing to speak, though now more to Loni than Darien, she admitted, "Mommy was a fool - a blind, stupid idiot, and the worst mother in the world. How could I do that? How could I let that man torture us both? Where was my mind?"

Darien reached across and touched the hand still stroking Loni's head. "Emotions can delude us all - love, anger, hate."

Avis watched Darien's hand as he set it back in his lap. The skin was already turning black. Then she looked up and examined his face. "Oh sweet mercy," she whispered. "Look at you. Tobias did that?"

The child suddenly wiggled into a sitting position and peered at Darien. "Daddy hurt you? You were naughty. You squashed him." Rubbing chubby fingers across his eyelids, Loni added accusingly, "You shouted."

Darien smiled slightly. This was his first proper sight of the pale-haired, blue-eyed youngster whose small face still displayed red blotches from crying. "I'm sorry I shouted. But I needed you to move quickly."

"Daddy was bad. He hurt mummy." Loni then turned, reached up and wrapped his arms round his mother's neck, nestling in the warmth of her embrace.

After kissing the child's head, Avis looked at Darien and said softly, "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name. I forgot it - though I remember you are a lord."

"A very minor one. I'm called Darien." There was a question he needed to ask. "Avis, how did you find out? - About Tobias and Oswyn?"

She sighed deeply, shaking her head in disgust. "A coin - an almost worthless coin with a small hole drilled in it; my uncle's 'lucky coin'. He kept it with the rest of his valuables saying that it would never be lonely. I think he meant that it attracted other money. A silly whim, but he would never have parted with it. Of course Tobias knew nothing about it. He came home tonight, full of anger and ale, and though I said nothing, he said that before I complained about him drinking and gambling, he had brought home nearly as much money as he had gone out with. Then he emptied his pockets onto the bed, and I saw Oswyn's lucky coin."

Rubbing the back of the child nestled in her arms, she continued her story, "What you said yesterday … about the orcs, I didn't want to believe it. I tried to make the words go away, told myself you were a liar, but the coin … it was as if I suddenly woke up - saw Tobias for the first time - not the strong, loving man that I thought I had married. And that made me see myself for what I was - a stupid woman waiting in fear for her husband's return, wondering if she had somehow earnt another a beating. Oh, but I shouldn't have picked the coin up, nor looked at Tobias the way I did. He isn't … wasn't as clever as he thought himself to be, but he wasn't a fool either."

The sound of cartwheels and horses' hooves signalled it was time to get up and begin the journey to Deerham. Gethrod drove the cart, his horse and Darien's tethered to the back. The soldiers refused to let Darien ride or drive, and he saw the wisdom of this. He sat with Avis and Loni, listening to the conversation about what would happen next. The farmhouse and outbuildings had been secured for the night. Tomorrow the Guard Station would make arrangements for Tobias, and also find farmers willing to take in Avis' stock animals. She could not run the farm by herself, not with a small child to look after. And there was no point in worrying about any of that until after the funeral, and the legal hearing. Captain Gethrod would be sending out messages first thing in the morning, one to Emyn Arnen, requesting a circuit judge, others to rescind the warrant for Muggin and Masher.

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Drath sat opposite Margul in The Black Cauldron. The night was very late and the tavern, empty. Muffled sounds issued from the kitchen, but the innkeeper and his guest kept their voices low.

Running a manicured finger around the rim of his half-empty glass, Margul observed, "If a law is passed granting orcs the same rights as men, you will have to pay your kitchen staff a worthy wage ... and cease beating them."

"Won't happen," Drath sneered. "The King's fought orcs for all his long life, he ain't gonna give 'em any due now."

"I do not share your confidence. The King has pardoned many of our ancient enemies."

"Only men," Drath insisted.

"But orcs will be the next step, mark my word. You cannot afford that, and neither can I. It will put a stop to your cheap labour and also our arrangement whereby you send the likely ones my way occasionally. I've paid you well for that service. Think on it."

Drath spat onto the floor. "Aye, it'd cost me some, but you a lot more, I'll wager."

"I'll not deny it. That is why we need to put a stop to such nonsense … one way or another. How many are involved? Is it just Cullen's father and this reformed orc-hunter?"

"Aye, Tiroc, the old fool. The other one's called Darien, wherever he's got to. That's it, far as I know … oh, mebbe there's Sevilodorf, a trader woman from The Burping Troll Inn. That'd be no surprise. They're said to treat orcs the same as men already in that odd neck of the woods. She's rumoured to be helping 'em sell precious stones."

Margul blinked slowly once, then looked up through eyes the colour of a winter morning. "Tell me more about this trader woman."

xxx

_24th February  
__Deerham_

The next evening, over an early supper, Darien sat in the 'cosy corner' of The Merry Jug contemplating events since the late night journey back to Deerham.

He, Avis and Loni had been handed over to an elderly healer to be tended. The deep sword wound in Avis' arm required stitching. She endured this in silence while Darien kept Loni occupied. His own injuries were quickly cleaned up. There was not much to be done for bruises and abrasions, just the application of salves, though he was ordered to rest his twisted ankle. The three stayed in the healer's home for the remainder of the night, sleeping late into the morning.

When Darien finally limped back to the tavern, the innkeeper had greeted him with a sympathetic grimace. It came as a surprise that Dunstan knew all the details of the encounter with Tobias.

"Not just me," the innkeeper stated. "Everyone for miles around will have heard. Such news travels faster than fire. My takings will be up tonight, you mark my words; the bar will be packed. Not that the cause makes me happy. But it seems Oswyn was right all along. Folks will rally round to help Avis and her son. They'll want a look at you too, and a colourful picture you are if you don't mind me saying."

Reflecting on the innkeeper's words, Darien seriously contemplated remaining in his room all evening, but he finally decided it would be better to witness first-hand the reactions of the locals. So here he was, awaiting the arrival of the evening trade.

Gethrod and Tilmith joined him quite early. After exchanging greetings, the captain remarked, "We've made sure the full story of last night has been widely circulated."

"So I hear," Darien replied wryly.

"Rumour and gossip breed lies," Gethrod explained. "Much better that the true facts are heard by all as soon as possible. Tobias had many friends, Tilmith and myself included. Let them hear about events as we witnessed them. We're here in case anyone has questions unanswered."

Customers started to arrive. They greeted the soldiers and nodded or just stared at Darien. No one approached to ask questions, not until much later when the tavern was packed and buzzing with incessant chatter.

Then a tall, solid, almost military-looking woman strode up and asked Darien in a booming voice, "Are you the man that helped rescue Loni?"

"Aye," he admitted.

The room fell into almost total silence at this exchange, but the woman's voice did not lower. "Well done for that. You've also been asking questions about orcs and what people think of them?"

"Yes, I have."

"I don't mind telling you that I despise them, but I despise even more folk that look and sound fair while acting like orcs. At least with an orc, you can see what you're getting. You come and visit me at Pear Tree Farm. I'll be happy to give you my opinions. Name's Aganza, by the way."

The woman nodded as if that was all settled, then turned to Gethrod, "Avis is staying with the healer, isn't she? I'll call to see her tomorrow. I've decided the best course for her is to sell up the farm and come to help me look after my brood. That young lad of hers could do with the company of other children, and a chance to live amongst a normal family."

As Aganza spun on her heel and marched away, Darien quietly asked the soldiers, "Will Avis want to do that?"

"Want or no … " Tilmith's beard parted in a wide grin. "I don't think a refusal will be tolerated."

The captain added his more sober opinion. "There's good sense in such an arrangement. Aganza might be a bit overwhelming at times, but she's a kind-hearted soul with five children, all of them happy and healthy. If Avis helps look after them, Aganza can do what she likes best, which is tending the farm alongside her husband. They make a strong working team, that woman and her man."

xxx

_25th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

From his seat at the desk, Anardil could hear Sev humming softly as she moved about their room, sorting through the various items brought back from their recent trip to the Ash Mountains. The tune was one that the former Ranger had heard her hum several times during the long days of their homeward bound journey; he lifted his hand from the report he was writing to turn and watch her. No one with the slightest ear for music would ever be impressed by her abilities; however, he had discovered that Sevilodorf hummed or sang only when she was happy. And it was with some satisfaction that he felt certain her current contentment was due to the growing solidarity of their partnership.

An unsuspecting eye might have been surprised to realize his tall, strong frame was marred by an empty sleeve pinned below his left shoulder, but his demeanour was that of a man utterly at peace. He smiled as he observed the brown-haired Rohirrim, her sweetly-rounded face unguarded and unaware of his fond study. Much of Sev's past remained yet unspoken, but the fears that had driven her to attempt to refuse his affections in Nurn, and those that had led to stiff silences, were replaced for now with a focus on the future; a future that they would move toward together. Mayhap not with the seamless fitting that had been the relationship of his parents, but certainly with a determination and passion equal to that with which they both chose to meet life.

Months ago, in Pelargir, Aerio the elf had made a comparison to Beren Camlost and his elvish maid, Luthien. Though spoken in jest, and not an analogy that Anardil would dare suggest to Sevilodorf, whose practical nature would decisively dismiss such a notion as romantic twaddle, it had struck a chord in the heart and mind of the ex-Ranger. From the bitter solitude into which he had exiled himself after the loss of his left arm at the Black Gates, Anardil knew he had been drawn back to life by the love of Sevilodorf of Rohan, just as Beren had returned in answer to the call of his Luthien. Though he fervently hoped that they would not be required to face dangers of the magnitude of those conquered by Beren and Luthien, he knew that they would indeed be a formidable team.

Suddenly he realized that Sev had fallen silent and was staring at him, her arms filled with skeins of the soft yarn they had taken in trade on the Eastern borders. She had exchanged her customary loose trousers and sturdy leather tunic for a forest green skirt that swirled gently about her ankles and a simple blouse of white cotton. Her brown hair however remained tightly bound in a braid; there had been few moments of repose since their arrival shortly after noon.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "I'll just put these away and go over to the common room for a while."

"You are not a disturbance, but if you are through, I would welcome your thoughts on this report of our trip."

"Of course."

Though she answered calmly enough, he could tell by the brightening of her expression that she was pleased to be asked. Sliding his chair sideways, he made room for Sev at his side, a position that suited them both.

xxx

TBC ...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_25th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

Sealing the packet with wax, Anardil marked the outer covering with the symbols that would speed the missive, unopened, into the hands of King Elessar. Though Anardil had given up his Ranger's star after losing his arm, Aragorn had found other uses for a man who still possessed a Ranger's stealth and wit, foremost was acting as a silent set of eyes and ears amongst Gondor's former foes.

Anardil's initial report of their foray to the Eastern borders went out several days ago, carried by one of the King's Messengers who they had flagged down on their journey home along the Northern Road. But this report was much more extensive and in all likelihood would result in his being called to Minas Tirith to answer for its contents in person. Though the War of the Ring saw the end of Sauron's power, it had not ended ancient hatreds nor paved easy roads for former enemies to walk in peace.

Ah well, at least, there would be no hatchet-faced chamberlain in Minas Tirith with delusions about the importance of his position. What was that fellow's name in Emyn Arnen?

Tapping the packet on the edge of the table, he said aloud, "Willelmus. That was it."

"Pardon?" Sev turned from the packs she had been storing beneath the bed.

"When you were in Emyn Arnen, did you have the misfortune to meet Willelmus?"

Sevilodorf thought for a moment then wrinkled her nose in distaste. Gathering a bundle of clothing to be washed on the morrow and dropping the basket beside the door, she said, "Only briefly. Lady Éowyn went to great pains to ensure that he was kept far from our rooms. If the rumors of his officious nature were even half to be trusted…." Sev's voice trailed off then she said, "Are you planning a trip to Emyn Arnen?"

"No, but I fear I will soon be called to Minas Tirith." He held up the thick report. "This is going to set a cat amongst some pigeons. One problem is solved, but spring may mean the King will have his hands full with assuring that Rhûn and its allies remain at peace."

"I don't doubt that for a moment. How long would you expect to be gone? And when must you leave?"

"Not until I'm called for. I have no great liking for kicking my heels on the stone benches outside the chamber of the Great Council." Grey eyes crinkled at the corners in a hopeful smile. "Though the hours would pass more swiftly if you were to accompany me."

Sev chewed her lip. "As tempting as the offer is, I don't see how. Halbarad said that Darien would be returning soon. I really should be here. And then too, my supplies of herbals are much depleted right now. I need to devote some time to harvesting and preparing more." Turning anxious eyes toward him, she asked, "You do understand?"

Anardil pushed back his chair and laughed softly. "That you prefer to muck about in damp woods, digging up weeds and spending hours in a small shed grinding said weeds into messy pastes and noxious salves…"

"My salves are not noxious," exclaimed Sev indignantly, slapping at the hand he tried to slip around her ample waist.

"Tell that to Aerio."

Sev's mouth twitched as she struggled to remain straight faced. "The scent of jonquils can hardly be termed noxious."

"On an elven warrior?"

"I told you my supplies are running low. All that I had of that particular ointment was floral scented. The smell will wear off."

"Meanwhile, Warg will continue to sneeze every time Aerio walks past her."

"Yes, there is that unfortunate side effect. Poor Warg."

"How fortunate for the Warg that she will not be around Aerio."

Sev began to ask why, and then stopped when she saw the arch gleam in his eyes. Her jaw tightened, and she blew out an exasperated breath.

"You don't mean to hold me to that stupid agreement, do you? I haven't had a single headache in weeks. And anyway, I've got trips to make to Henneth Annûn. She cannot follow me there. They'd fill her full of arrows at the edge of town."

The stubborn set to Sev's lips was echoed in the line across Anardil's brow. "The agreement was that Warg would accompany you whenever you left the grounds of The Burping Troll. Will you go back on your word?"

"First, the terms of the agreement was _one _month, which is very nearly over. Second, regardless of the terms, you and Warg made that agreement; I was not consulted. And finally, I repeat she cannot accompany me into Henneth Annûn, and don't even suggest an elven escort. They have their own duties to fulfill."

Mention of the elves who lived in the nearby woods, and who had become fast friends of The Burping Troll's residents, brought a perplexed grimace to Anardil's lips. All the elves held Sev in great respect, both as a healer and for her fiercely independent spirit, their resident warg was an old and formidable friend, and such ties he did not dismiss lightly.

"They see nothing wrong with the request," he responded, a hint of frustration tightening his voice. "And would gladly make the time."

"Which means you've already been talking to them about it. They may not see anything wrong with the request, but I do. I am not some imbecilic scatterbrained female, if I thought there was any danger I would make my own arrangements for an escort."

"Like you thought there was no danger before?" Anardil retorted sharply.

It took no thought at all to realize he was referring to the day when Darien and two of his orc hunters had kidnapped her.

Sev's temper boiled over as she said through clenched teeth, "I did arrange an escort that day."

"Yes, and promptly ran off without him. Warg will not be so easy to escape." Holding up his hand to still her reply, Anardil said, "She knows of a meadow close to the road and only a short distance outside of town and will wait there while you complete your dealings."

Her voice dripping with sarcasm, Sev said, "How nice to know that I can at least be considered capable of doing that unsupervised. Aren't you afraid that I might be clouted on the head, hauled down some back alley in Henneth Annûn and sold down river?"

"Certainly." His eyes narrowed as he set his jaw in stubbornness, which fully matched hers. "Which is why you are also going to find someone of your choice to escort you around the town. You can put them to work hauling parcels and packages or what have you. But they are to be within shouting distance at all times."

Sev's eyes narrowed; but before she could speak Anardil's expression abruptly became beseeching as he went on, "Sev, if you would use the common sense I know you possess, you would see that I only do this out of -."

Sev interrupted in a deadly quiet voice, "Out of love? Out of a sense of responsibility?"

Deliberately she ignored his look of baffled annoyance. Poking him in the chest to punctuate each word, she continued, "I am responsible for ME. "

"I never said you weren't."

"You don't have to say it. I lived too long bound by restraints placed on me by people who insisted they had only my best interests at heart not to recognize the beginnings of that particular speech."

"Be sensi-." Anardil stopped mid-word as she rounded on him in fury.

"Don't say it! I AM SENSIBLE! Just because I won't do what you and every other male in this community thinks is best does not make me incapable of sense."

"No?"

Now his expression was positively mulish, and Sev barely controlled the urge to kick him in the shin. Forcing herself to remember that she loved the man dearly, she closed her eyes and counted to ten in Rohirric, then on to twenty just to be on the safe side.

Opening her eyes, she said carefully, "When we are involved in a mission for your king, you are right to expect me to follow orders. But we are no longer on such a mission. This is MY life. This is what I do. I wish with all my heart to be with you, but I will not return to being someone who bites her tongue and gives a meek 'yes, sir' at every turn. Not even for you."

The thought of a meek Sevilodorf was almost more than his mind could grasp, and Anardil wondered briefly what means had been used to force such an attitude upon her. Then he decided that knowing would probably just arouse anger at people who were too long gone to warrant it.

Reaching out a tentative hand, he sighed, "Sevi, I only wish to keep you from harm in the best way I know how."

Taking his hand and drawing him gently forward, she said, "I realize that. But there must be another way." Brushing back the wayward lock of hair that had crept across his face, she went on softly, "Will you not trust me to take care of myself? You can't always be here; and barring a few scars and bruises, I have managed."

"Yes, you have. In spite of the trouble that seems to follow where ever you go." His smile was only a fleeting image before he said more soberly, "It's just that I keep seeing that mountain of mud sliding down and covering the entrance to that damn hole where you were held captive."

Sev's whispered exclamation of understanding was almost lost as he pulled her tightly to him to confess, "I do not know what I would do if I lost you, Sevi. I do not think I would have the strength to try life a third time."

"Shhh, don't say such things." She lay soft fingers over his lips. "You only invite the gods to test us."

Silence engulfed them as they reflected on their tragic lives. The joy they found together was a gift unlooked for, but fragile as a quail's egg. Both sought to protect the other, each knowing their hearts could not bear breaking again. Yet both had learnt fierce self-determination.

"Can we not find a means to work this out peaceably? I do not mean to set up boundaries to your independence, Sevi; but it is only sensible, though I know how you hate the word, not to enter dangerous territory alone."

"Henneth Annûn can no more be termed dangerous than my salves are noxious."

"As with your salve, that is a matter of viewpoint." Humour once again warmed the lines of his face, though his words were gently earnest. "You and Lord Darien are embarking upon a mission that will stir up a hornet's nest, and there are sure to be some in the village who would take great delight in sending those stings your direction."

"You mean Sira, the barmaid at The Whistling Dog?" Sev replied.

"From what I have heard, Sira's vindictiveness verges on the murderous."

The harshness of Anardil's tone startled Sev. "I thought you considered her nothing more than an annoyance."

"Nay, Sev. Your warning about her did not fall on deaf ears. I told you I understand her type too well. After cross-checking a few matters with Halbarad and the Rangers in Henneth Annûn, I will be even more cautious in any contacts I have with the woman. And so should you."

Both recalled their stay in at The Whistling Dog, shortly before the journey to the Ash Mountains. They had retired to the privacy of their room after a heated encounter with Sira. While Anardil had soothingly combed Sev's hair, she drifted into silent brooding, worrying about his safety and reputation…

xxx

"Anardil…" Sev said after several quiet minutes.

"Yes?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. "Never mind."

Anardil set the comb aside and slipped his arm around her waist to pull her back to lean against him. He pressed a soft kiss into her hair and she twisted about to face him.

"You do know that everyone downstairs is busily concocting outrageous tales about the two of us?"

"This is supposed to worry me in some way?" Anardil's brows rose to punctuate his question.

"Yes, nmad ti. It should. Jasimir is worse than a hobbit about spreading tales and Sira…. Well, suffice it to say, Sira would delight in doing you harm because of me."

"_Meleth nin_, I am quite capable of taking care of myself, though I do appreciate your concern."

Sev bit her lip and shook her head stubbornly. Jerking out of his embrace, she said morosely, "It's too late now anyway, we've been seen together."

A swift flame of anger flared and he said more harshly than he intended, "Is our relationship to be a secret then? Are we to meet only in back alleys? Or distant cities?"

Whirling about, she glared at him. "Of course not. That's not it at all."

"Then what is the problem?"

"Men don't understand Sira's type. You just dismiss her as an annoyance. She's capable of doing someone great harm." Sev's voice dropped to a whisper. "And I do not wish it to be you."

"Nothing is going to happen to me." Anardil reached out to her, but she shook her head and backed away.

"That's what I said, and look where it got me. Buried alive in an abandoned orc cave with men who nearly forgot that I was not an orc!" Sev threw up her hands in exasperation. "But I am speaking to hear myself, just promise me that you will never lower your guard around her. Never."

He reached out once more and this time she allowed herself to be pulled into a tight embrace. Wrapping her arms about his waist, she said in muffled tones against his chest, "Promise me."

"Aye, I promise. You have no need to fear, Sevi. I understand Sira's type only too well. If she could wish harm to young hobbit lovers as she did with Camellia and Milo, she is nasty and spiteful indeed."

Sev shook her head. "Just be on your guard. She is more devious than she appears."

xxx

Returning her thoughts to the present, Sevilodorf reflected on how Anardil had indeed taken her warning seriously - seriously enough to ask the Rangers about Sira's reputation.

"Cameroth has held a tight leash on her recently. And Jareth, as well." Sev's reference to the owner and bartender of The Whistling Dog set Anardil shaking his head.

"Both seemed good men; but Sev, I do not wish to trust your well-being to either of them. Sira, as you said then, is devious; and it appeared to me that Cameroth especially viewed her behaviors as being little more than the ordinary. Which for Sira is probably the truth. She is just the type to use any ill feeling stirred up by others to cause you harm in such a way so not to have the blame laid at her own feet."

"That she is." Sev looked thoughtful. "I beg your pardon, you are correct to remind me that being home does not necessarily mean there is no danger. I have acquired the unfortunate habit of rebelling against any attempt to put restrictions on my comings and goings. Even when the motives for such restrictions are sensible."

Anardil snorted. "Are you trying to convince me this is a recently acquired habit?"

Holding up her chin and fixing him with glittering blue eyes, Sev said regally, "I would never attempt such a falsehood, sir. I've been a thorn in the side of those seeking to keep me 'protected' since I was a child."

"That long, eh?" Anardil sidestepped the quick hand that aimed at his stomach and laughed. "Are we agreed then? Warg will accompany you on the road, and you will arrange companionship within the village."

"This sounds suspiciously like you winning on all counts and me on none, " Sev replied archly. "But I agree, at least until we determine how stirred up the residents of Henneth Annûn are about Darien's campaign. I can think of a few who would certainly try to twist such a mission to meet their own purposes."

"Come then, we'll inform Warg together. She wasn't at all certain you desired her company."

Anardil pulled the door open as Sev bent down to gather up the load of laundry waiting to be carried out.

"No, she just wasn't certain if she was going to be able to convince you to continue supplying her with haggis. I do hope you struck a better deal this time. Last time, you ended up having to pay our hobbit lad Milo to provide her with haggis while we were away in the Ash Mountains. So poor a deal that was that I'm almost ashamed to admit I know you."

"I'll have you know that I did considerably better this time." Anardil strove to look indignant. "Besides, Milo refused to mix up any more haggis, so the bargain this time was for pony biscuits."

"Oh, was it now?" Sev said silkily. "And just who is your supplier of pony biscuits?"

"Why you, of course. Surely, you'll give me a good deal?"

"Me! You expect me to give you a good deal." She began to laugh. Shaking her head at him as she walked away. "Do you not realize that pony biscuits are a rare commodity, currently commanding a very high price indeed?" She turned and winked before disappearing around the corner of Celebsul's workshop.

xxx

_26th February  
__Deerham_

Late in the afternoon, two days after his first encounter with the farmer woman Aganza, Darien collated the written results of the interview he had since conducted with her and her husband. In fact, he had collected a wide range of views from many willing people. The results were beginning to show a pattern.

While he allowed people to talk freely, Darien ensured that everyone answered certain questions. One of these regarded the sentience of orcs. A number of people referred to them as creatures or beasts. However, with very little probing about the orcs' ability to talk and think, they conceded that orcs were indeed a race similar to men and elves, though many interviewees added the proviso that the breed was inherently evil.

Another question involved whether every orc should be killed on sight. This usually provoked a moment of silence while people considered their replies. Darien had the impression that if he had asked this before the truth about Tobias had emerged, he might have met with more spontaneous reactions. The knowledge that orcs had worked alongside Oswyn with no harm, yet a man had subsequently murdered him, proved food for thought.

Only one person admitted that he had been prepared to kill Muggin and Masher. "I agreed to ride with Tobias to drive them out and fight them if they offered any resistance, and I wasn't the only one. The guards put a stop to it though. Then when Oswyn was murdered, I cursed the soldiers for fools … I'll be more careful who I believe in future."

One question caused even longer silences. "If you were to have clear evidence that there are orcs like Muggin and Masher who can and have lived peacefully and usefully with men, would you be prepared to tolerate them?"

Some said they would consider it, but still have strong misgivings. A few wryly commented that if Darien could recommend some reliable orc farmhands, then they would gladly take them on. But they noted the irony that orcs were largely responsible for the shortage of men.

A final question that Darien posed was that if Muggin and Masher had been caught before the truth was known, would they and should they have been entitled to a trial. Answers varied, but mostly folk admitted that the orcs would have been unlikely to have been put on trial. On reflection, they thought that in future all accused, whatever they were, should be entitled to a trial if only to ensure the true culprit was found and punished. This was a powerful, new argument; Darien added it to his growing list.

His mind now wandered to other matters. Yesterday Captain Gethrod had received word from The Burping Troll confirming that Muggin and Masher could not have been the killers of Oswyn; not that this evidence was vital any more. However, Halbarad added a note explaining that he had circulated a report of Darien possibly being delayed in Deerham. It included instructions for rangers to keep an eye peeled for Horus. Better to divert him to where his leader was than to allow him to make an unnecessary journey to Northern Ithilien. Darien fervently hoped that Horus would receive this information.

Then there was this morning's funeral; Tobias committed to his grave. Many people attended, for the sake of Avis rather than her husband; the child, Loni, stayed with the healer while his father was laid in the earth. Darien hovered uncomfortably in the background until the dry-eyed ritual was over.

He was surprised when Avis approached him afterwards and volunteered, "I knew Oswyn's views on the orcs. If you want a sworn statement of what those views were, I'm prepared to give it. I'm prepared to stand before anyone and say that my uncle trusted those orcs above my own husband, and with good reason. May Eru forgive Tobias; I will not."

Returning his thoughts to the present, Darien lifted the latest sheet of evidence - Avis' statement. He had collected much more information from this one small village than he had ever imagined possible. Tomorrow the circuit judge was expected, and the hearing into Oswyn's murder, hopefully bringing to a close the saga of the last few days.

xxx

TBC ...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_26th February  
__Northern Ithilien_

The man was a King's messenger.

Sevilodorf was certain of that.

Though he wore no uniform or device proclaiming his service to Elessar, she had not the slightest doubt of his occupation. He was simply too poised, too sure of himself, and too perfectly casual to be an ordinary man. Furthermore, as the regular evening delivery of dispatches had arrived before dinner, his could only be a special errand.

Therefore it was increasingly strange that he did not make any move beyond the seat he had taken by the window nearly half an hour ago. Halbarad and Bob were both in plain sight arguing over a 'friendly' game of Tabbacus. No signal had passed between this stranger and their Ranger Captain that she had seen. Yet, both were studiously ignoring each other.

Whatever was the man doing here?

The obvious answer was in the kitchen behind her, so she carefully closed her ledger book and rose from her seat. The stranger glanced idly at her then turned back to his mug of ale. Sev checked the smile that formed at that action, for it was his seeming indifference to the Troll's unlikely bartender that had first brought the man to Sev's attention. Only someone familiar with the inn should have been able to react like that to the sight of an actual, living, smoking, albeit runty balrog; and this man was unknown to her and, even more damning, to the hobbits. Therefore, she reasoned, his relaxed attitude could only stem from careful preparedness, which only a man in the King's service would do.

Gathering the teapot and cup onto a small tray, Sev headed for the kitchen. When she pushed through the door, her disappointment at finding only Meri, Camellia and the elf Aerio must have been obvious. Aerio had both hands busy rinsing dishes, but Meri smiled and clutched her dish towel as she pointed to the back door.

"He's gone that a way." Nor was there any need to elaborate which "he" she spoke of.

"You let him escape?" Sev said with asperity. "Kitchen chores are part of the bargain he made."

"Oh, he's doing kitchen chores. He's taking the scraps out to the compost heap," Meri said with a grin. Then taking up a damp cloth, she clambered onto a stool and scrubbed at the corner of Sev's mouth. "You need to stop chewing on your pens." The hobbit lass peered at her handiwork before hopping back onto the floor.

"Yes, Mother." Sev looked down with patient resignation as the hobbit went on to brush at a stain on her tunic.

Giving the taller Rohirrim woman a gentle push toward the door, Meri said slyly, "Why don't you go see what he's up to?"

Rolling her eyes as the two hobbits giggled and Aerio smirked, Sev said, "I'll do just that."

Then a wicked whisper of amusement struck, and pausing with the door half-open, she added, "By the way, the man sitting at the table near the window seemed a trifle lonely. Maybe you should try to cheer him up. Maybe sing a song or two for him, Cam?"

"That's a wonderful idea, Sevi. Music's just the thing to lift the spirits," Camellia responded gaily. "As soon as we finish here we'll do our best to cheer him up."

"That should do him a world of good," Sev replied lightly.

Wondering just exactly how the man would react to the well-meaning hobbits, she pulled the door closed and halted on the back steps for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. A light glowed dimly behind the curtains of Meri and Erin's room and cast a faint rectangle of light on the path to the barn. Another path ran straight ahead toward the garden.

"Fifty-fifty," she muttered. With that she started toward the barn, figuring that Anardil would have chosen to take the longest time possible with this chore, in hopes of avoiding others.

Anardil had not been exactly thrilled to learn that Sev's trader's instinct for bargains extended into her personal life, at least in this instance. In return for the pony biscuits he needed to bribe Warg to perform the duties of chaperone, Sev had demanded his services as kitchen maid. Amidst fumbling astonishment he had argued that his time at the Troll could not be foreseen. He might be called to Minas Tirith within a few days, or sent on to Dorwinion or the Sea of Rhûn to follow up on the information they had discovered during their trip to the Ash Mountains. But Sev had held firm.

Kitchen chores were not on the top of her list of favorite activities; and if she were to be forced to accept Warg as a chaperone whenever she left the Troll, she deserved to get something good from it. With a great deal of reluctance, Anardil had finally agreed to three evenings of duty in the kitchen for each small bag of pony biscuits Sev distributed. He would perform his duties each evening he was in residence at the Troll until all of his time had been completed. Mumbling something about the decree of limitations on the collection of debts, he reported for his first evening of dish washing, plate scraping and table wiping with a stoic expression.

The comedic spectacle of a tall ex-Ranger realigning salt tubs and honey pots just so on the tables per Camellia's directions was almost too much, but Sev had kept her own face carefully neutral. After all, she wished to at least keep some points on her side before informing him that her choice of escort in Henneth Annûn was to be Erin the hobbit. Anyway, knowing the hobbits, only a short time would pass before he discovered that the job did have certain benefits: the kitchen helpers got fed toffee nuts and other special tidbits.

Approaching the barn, Sev saw no light or sign that Anardil had come this way.

"Nmad," she said, turning to go back and take the garden path.

"Sevi," a familiar voice called softly, and she whirled about to stare up at the dark opening above the barn doors.

Virtually invisible in the shadows, Anardil sat leaning against the frame of the upper hayloft door.

A teasing remark about boys who hid in haylofts to escape their chores rose to her lips. But then the thought of the stranger by the window and his probable mission at the Troll intervened, and she bit back the words.

Craning her head back, she asked, "Are you coming down, or shall I come up?"

Not giving him time to respond, she went in. Knowing every inch of the barn, she needed no light to make her way to the loft ladder. Climbing quickly, she considered how such an act would have been different for a one armed man. But the loss of his arm seldom stopped Anardil from doing exactly what he set out to do.

"I'll warn you that Meri has issued a strict proclamation forbidding residents from sleeping in the barn."

Anardil snorted slightly and replied, "I have more sense than to do battle with Meri. Besides I have a much softer place to rest my head than a pile of hay."

"That you do," Sev answered easily. "At last count, there were four feather pillows upon your bed."

"I wasn't referring to the pillows," he said, smiling with a smoldering look that caused Sev's breath to catch and a rush of warmth to surge through her.

"Come sit with me." Anardil nodded to the place beside him. "I've something to show you."

Sev laughed as she settled beside him. "I haven't been invited to come see something in a hayloft for years."

"Then you've been dealing with the wrong sort of men," he said with a teasing leer that set her laughing again. "However, if that's the way your thoughts are running, I fear this will be a disappointment."

He scooped a mere handful of fur from his lap and placed it gently in hers.

"A kitten." Lifting it up to rub against her cheek, she said, "I didn't know any of our cats were expecting. Where did this little one come from? It's not very old."

"I found it by the compost pile. It does seem a little young to be separated from its mother. I'd hoped to find mama or at least its litter mates up here."

The little animal nuzzled Sev's face and immediately began purring. "We'll have to take it into the kitchen for a while and give it some special attention."

"Everything that enters that kitchen gets special attention."

At the unexpected edge in his voice Sev looked up from cuddling the kitten, and examined his face as closely as the shadows allowed.

"Did they truly drive you to distraction? They mean well, but it can be overwhelming at first."

Running his hand through his hair, he replied, "I did not realize how solitary a creature I had become. But…"

Filling in the rest, Sev settled the kitten in her lap. "But a little bit of hobbity enthusiasm can go a long way."

She spared a moment of thought for the fellow that she had sent the hobbits to entertain. How was he handling their overtures of friendship? She knew she should tell Anardil immediately about the man; but a selfish part of her wanted a bit more time with him before the world intruded to drag him away. She was only too aware that their mission to the Ash Mountains had been a special situation. Neither Anardil nor Lord Faramir was going to let her go trailing along on a trip to Rhûn, especially after learning that the eastern warlords were beginning to venture into Gondor's territory. Sev sighed inwardly. Would there never truly be peace?

"Yes." Anardil said, and for a moment Sev was hard pressed to reclaim the thread of the conversation. "But as you said, they mean well."

"If it's too wearing, you don't have to do the kitchen chores."

With a soft chuckle, Anardil shook his head in disbelief. "And have you take a loss on the bargain? Why, Sevi, what would your cousin, Esiwmas, say?"

"I never said you wouldn't have to pay," Sev exclaimed, and with her kitten-less hand tapped his chest. "Just that you don't have to do kitchen chores."

She tried to keep her voice light and teasing. If she allowed herself to dwell on the fact that he would soon be leaving, she might begin a quarrel just to ease the hurt. It would seem that it was to remain her fate to endure the uncertainty of waiting.

However, no matter how much she inwardly raged, she was determined to present a different face to the world, and to Anardil. She had made her choice, and would stand by it. A King's Man was what he was and always would be. He would go wherever duty required. But, and this was the belief that allowed her to meet the coming separations with some semblance of rationality, he would take her with him whenever possible.

"And what exactly did you have in mind?" Anardil said warily. "Having learned my lesson, albeit slowly, I would hear the terms before I agree."

"Very well, here are my terms. In return for my agreeing to accept Warg as chaperone whenever I leave the grounds of The Burping Troll, and for supplying the pony biscuits for her payment, I expect …" Sev paused dramatically.

"Out with it, Sevi," he growled in mock anger as the silence lengthened.

"I'm just trying to word it correctly… Ouch!" She yelped as he pinched her waist, but continued her thought. "Ah yes, I want to be cuddled, not cosseted. I do not want to be pampered, though back scrubbing is allowable. But most of all, I want…" she reached up and traced the line of his jaw lightly, "you."

He leaned into her hand then turned to kiss her palm. "I think we can reach an amicable agreement here."

Her pulse leaped at the soft feel of his lips, the gentle rasp of stubble.

"Merely amicable? I was hoping for something a little more…enthusiastic."

"That can be arranged."

He lowered his head and caught her lips in a kiss that startled her with its intensity. The kitten gave a squeak as he pulled her toward him, and Sev jerked as needle sharp claws pierced fabric.

Accepting the kitten after Sev had pried it free, Anardil said, "Sorry, little one."

"Are you apologizing to the cat or to me?" Sev asked, rubbing ruefully at her thigh.

"The cat. He's the one who got squashed."

Ignoring Sev's indignant exclamation, Anardil carried the kitten to a pile of hay where he settled it gently into a small nest. Stroking it slowly he murmured softly in Elvish.

"Now what? Magic spells?" Sev asked with a laugh, as she climbed to her feet brushing chaff from her trousers and tunic.

Keeping his voice low and continuing to stroke the tiny creature, which had resumed purring loudly, Anardil replied, "Just making sure we won't be disturbed again."

"Oh, really?" Sev said, leaning over him with a lift of her eyebrows. "And what makes you think…"

She gasped as he suddenly abandoned the kitten to wrap her in a fierce one-armed embrace. His mouth descended on hers, demanding that she yield to him. After only a half-hearted protest, she did.

xxx

The stars glittered overhead and the last light of day grew dim in the west, as two figures walked hand-in-hand towards the inn. Where lamplight spilled across the grass from a front window they paused to face each other.

Brushing another strand of hay from his shoulder, Sev said, "You might tell that not-so-secret messenger that the normal reaction to meeting the Balrog is a bit more extreme than a mere, 'make it a dark, if you've got it'."

"That it is," Anardil chuckled, remembering his own graceless reaction to seeing the Troll's bartender for the first time. "It would have been much more appropriate for him to scream and fall flat on his face."

"More than one person has," Sev replied mildly, and then looked up at him, fingers still on his shoulder. "Am I forgiven for not informing you of his arrival immediately?"

Catching her hand, he carried it to his lips. His grey eyes smiled his clemency as he softly kissed her fingers, for he understood only too well why she had delayed. He felt the same selfish reluctance to allowing the world's intrusion upon their time together.

"From the looks of things, it is not my pardon you must ask." His smile took on a wry cant as Anardil nodded toward the front window.

There a man wearing a look of dazed amazement sat surrounded by the four hobbits. The un-secret messenger, it seemed, had not reckoned with just how vigorously hobbits would endeavor to make a wandering stranger feel welcome.

"Oh dear. I do feel so sorry for him," she responded, with a snort that belied her words.

Touching her nose with a fingertip, Anardil chided gently, "Be polite. He's just doing his job."

"The fact that he's here to deliver a message that will probably take you away is not what irritates me most." Sev scowled as he withdrew his finger. "But that he assumes we are all so unobservant not to realize there is something strange about a man who doesn't react to a Balrog, and who sits in the common room of an inn on the edges of nowhere, with no clear explanation of where he came from or why he's here. Why is it that you Rangers don't give the common people more credit for brains?"

"Peace, Sevi. Let me go rescue him from the hobbits." Anardil cocked his head to observe her reaction. "May I take him back to our room? It would be a trifle more private than the barn."

Sev's curiosity was aroused by the request, but she squashed it firmly to respond, "Of course; give me a couple of minutes to get the basket for the kitten, then you can have the place to yourself. I assume you don't want to make it obvious you are the reason he is here, as he's gone to such extreme measures to keep the fact secret."

Her own smile became ironic, as Sev pointed to the window where Milo now appeared to be reciting a poem. At least one presumed that's what the hobbit lad was doing, standing there with his hands clasped in his back, rocking back on his heels and speaking at great length towards the ceiling.

"It would be best. We might need to come up with a better scheme for the delivery of the more private dispatches." As the sound of the hobbit's voice rising and falling, drifted through the window, he added wryly, "If only to protect the messengers from the hobbits."

"Or the hobbits from the messenger? You better get in there; he looks as if he's had all he can take."

Sev walked away but Anardil indulged himself by waiting until, with a low laugh and soft murmurs to the kitten, which had begun to mewl hungrily, she disappeared around the corner of the building. He listened for her light tread toward their room behind Celebsul's workshop, before turning back to the tableau presented in the window. There he wondered idly how 'secret' a meeting could be, that was the common knowledge of four hobbits, a Rohirrim healer, two Rangers, a balrog and who knew how many elves. The better course would have been for the messenger to simply ask to speak with him. Though everyone would have known of the meeting, no one would have thought much about it. Now, however, he was certain that curiosity would keep many an active brain from sleep tonight.

Some careful thinking would be needed to determine if it were possible to manage the secrecy his work required with the openness of The Burping Troll. It was entirely possible that he would have to set up base in Henneth Annûn instead.

Ah, well, as he had told Sevi before, they would take things slowly for a time. First, he needed to go rescue the king's messenger.

xxx

"Sev… come get this thing. It's trying to eat my pie."

"I'll be there in a minute." The faint reply drifted hollowly through the open door to the cellar.

"Hurry, will you? It's attacking."

The steady thump of boots on the cellar steps heralded Sev's return. As did the exasperated snort she gave, as she reached the top step to see the problem. Bob was seated at the kitchen table fending off a black and white kitten with one hand, while steadfastly shoveling pie in his mouth with the other. The kitten, it appeared, refused to let a tall grim Ranger intimidate it in the slightest. Even as she watched, the tiny thing pounced to wrap itself around his hand like a furry animated glove.

"Ow!" he cried, and clenched his teeth as he delicately peeled the kitten loose.

"Honestly, Bob. It's only a kitten. A battle-hardened Ranger such as yourself should certainly be able to withstand its assault."

Bob eyed with distaste the kitten, which was now batting a piece of pie crust across the table.

"Not without hurting it, I can't."

"Don't you dare," exclaimed Sev, and quickly replaced the pie crust with a scrap of dried beef.

"Then keep it out of my plate. Hey! You come back here with that!" Bob shouted, as the kitten absconded with his napkin. "Sevi, it's swarming!"

With a patient sigh Sev rescued the napkin and tossed it back at Bob. Thereupon she scooped up the kitten and plopped it into a round basket she had brought from her room. The kitten blinked at its rapid change of locations, but settled down to wrestle with the scrap of soft cloth lining the inside of the basket.

"I tried that," Bob said in response to the pointed look Sev gave him. "It kept crawling out."

Shaking her head with exasperation, Sev retreated into the pantry and began her next task, an inventory of its contents. If Anardil was being called to Minas Tirith as he thought, she might as well travel with him as far as Henneth Annûn to collect supplies for the Troll. For a few moments the only sounds were her mutterings about how the hobbits managed to use more sugar than anyone she had ever met, the scrape of Bob's fork upon his plate and the rhythmic thumping of the kitten rolling about inside the basket.

Then the back door clicked open, and Sev stuck her head out to see Anardil enter. The nod he gave her was answer enough to the question in her eyes. With a sinking heart, but the determination to keep a calm exterior, Sev emerged from the pantry. Uncertain what to ask, though, she glanced at Bob, now finishing his second piece of pie - the first was berry, this was pumpkin - then back at Anardil.

However, Anardil waved off her concern. "Gilrad was being overly cautious. There's nothing here that anyone couldn't know." He reached to break off a piece of Bob's pie crust and popped it in his mouth. "I am requested to report to the Grand Council at my earliest possible convenience."

"So you are leaving tonight or tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow will be soon enough." He grinned roguishly at Sev, and then Bob. "Though Gilrad declined our hospitality for the evening. He said something about road crews being quieter camp mates."

Sev laughed as Bob remarked, "Hal and I wondered whether ol' Gilrad was going to sit there all evening, or finally break down and ask for you. We figured Sev had gone to get you, but then the two of you didn't come back. And…" The Ranger shrugged.

"And by that time you and Hal were having too much fun watching him suffer -." Anardil said, settling into the seat beside his friend, "beneath the overly enthusiastic ministrations of the hobbits."

Bob grinned unashamedly. "We certainly were. What took you so long, anyway? Not that it wasn't worth it. You should have seen Gilrad listening to Milo's rendition of that poem about the trolls."

The answer for their tardiness was no business but their own, and Sev kept her face carefully blank. She did not dare to look at Anardil as Bob turned an amused eye on first one then the other.

"I wanted Sev to see the kitten," Anardil explained, with an easiness that Sev had to admire.

He even sweetened the alibi by dipping his finger into the basket to caress the tiny creature's head. However, she held little hope that Bob would let the matter drop.

After licking pie filling thoroughly from his fork - and losing the last bite to Anardil's quick fingers - Bob grinned broadly. "Looking at kittens, is that what it's called now?"

Lifting her chin, Sev stared down at Bob. "Is that what what's called now? Need I remind you of the demon you've been fighting off for the last half hour?"

She pointed to the basket, where the kitten had lost the battle with the cloth and fallen asleep with one white paw over its face.

"True," Bob replied thoughtfully. "I'll give you full points for credibility. However, speaking from experience…"

Folding her arms and tapping her fingers on her sleeves, Sev continued to glare at the Ranger as he stood. Never losing his impish grin, he chucked her under the chin with one finger. Resisting the urge to bite that finger, Sev simply waited for him to finish.

"I would advise that in the future, you be more careful about brushing the chaff from your back."

Anardil snorted once, then stifled any further outbursts as Sev turned a bright red and gave Bob a solid shove in the chest.

"A gentleman would not bring the matter up," she said through clenched teeth.

Then she grinned evilly as he lost his footing, stumbled backwards and tipped over the chair with a crash. Giving Anardil a narrow-eyed look, Sev snatched up the basket with the kitten and marched out the back door.

Both men winced as the slam rattled the crockery in the cupboard, whereupon Anardil ruefully shook his head at Bob.

"As long as you've known her, old friend, you still underestimate her."

In return Bob merely shrugged an apology, righted the chair and resumed his seat - just as Meri rushed in from the hallway.

"What was that noise?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing to worry about Meri," Bob replied soothingly. "I just knocked over the chair."

Hands on hips, Meri looked from one man to the other then at the back door. Clicking her tongue at their oh-so-innocent expressions, she said firmly, "Bob, you are a rascal, so I know there's more to it than that. And Anardil, you ought not quarrel with Sevi on the night before you leave."

Quietly Anardil asked, "Who said I was leaving?"

Dismissively Meri waved a hand. "Who else could that have been but a messenger for you? Which room did you put him in?"

"He decided not to stay."

"Oh, well, he did seem in an awful hurry. But you and Sev took so long looking at the kitten that -." Meri frowned as Bob dissolved into a helpless fit of laughter. "What's the matter with you, Bob?"

"Ignore him," Anardil said smoothly. "There's nothing wrong with him that one of Sev's tonics won't cure, Meri. And you're right, Gilrad was in rather a hurry. He did tell me to give you his thanks for an entertaining evening."

"Gilrad. I'll remember that, for when he comes back. Are you through with those, Bob?"

Without waiting for a reply, Meri swept up the Ranger's fork and empty plate and carried them to the sink. Then she turned with a hand over her mouth in dismay.

"Oh my, was that something we aren't supposed to talk about? I mean, are we not supposed to know who he is?"

Anardil kicked Bob smartly in the shins to silence the fresh burst of laughter that convulsed him. Pain was a rather handy aid in turning laughter into a cough.

"Don't you worry about it, Meri. If he comes back, just fetch me, or Hal."

The hobbit lass nodded happily. "Then I'll bid you good night. And don't dirty up any more dishes."

"Good night, Meri," Bob wheezed, mashing his knuckles against his teeth lest Anardil kick him any harder.

"Good night, Meri," echoed Anardil. "Sev and I will be heading for Henneth Annûn early in the morning."

Mouth forming a little O, Meri paused in the doorway. "Then I'd better tell Erin. She'll need to be ready."

Anardil's face went blank with utter shock. "Why would Erin need to be ready?"

Smiling brightly, Meri said, "Oh, Sevi asked her to go with her whenever she goes to Henneth Annûn. Erin's been wanting a little adventure, didn't you know?"

"No," Anardil responded thoughtfully. "I didn't."

"Well, she has. Though going to Henneth Annûn is not exactly my idea of an adventure. The most exciting thing I've heard of lately was a herd of pigs loose in the marketplace!" Meri laughed at the thought.

"One can only hope," Anardil muttered, his hand going up to rub his temple, rather as if he were growing a headache.

Meri looked at him in confusion then shrugged. Big People were hard to understand sometimes. "Good night, then."

"Good night," Bob repeated, having recovered his composure.

As the hobbit's soft footsteps padded away, Anardil drummed his fingers on the table. When she had gone, he closed his eyes wearily.

"I take it she didn't tell you." Bob's voice was suddenly serious.

The Ranger had heard Halbarad and Anardil debating the possible effects of Lord Darien's petition and knew that they were both concerned about Sev traveling about alone. Her association and trade with the orcs had become a little too well-known and one could not be sure what unpleasant attention she might garner. He also knew that he was very happy _not_ to be the one to try to convince Sev that a hobbit did not qualify as a bodyguard.

"No," Anardil answered tersely. "But it might just be time for a conversation on the matter."

Bob nodded soberly as his friend stood and, with a short 'good night', went out through the kitchen door.

Turning the lamp down low, Bob imagined the exchange that would shortly take place in the room behind the workshop. With a sudden wry grin, he decided that it was just as well that the couple had enjoyed their frolic earlier - before Anardil heard of Sev's choice of traveling companion.

xxx

_27th February  
__Somewhere near the Druadan Forest_

Padric trudged down the little path with a bucket in his hand and a limp in his stride; despite the continuing clemency of the weather, these chilly mornings just crawled right into that bad knee of his. However, this had nearly become a part of his morning chores, so the grizzled woodcutter continued down towards the stand of thin grey saplings that lined the stream bank. Behind him the chimney of his house smoked gently and on the porch, two dogs idly watched him go then dropped their chins to their paws. They also had become familiar with the routine and they knew that Master did not want them to fright the creature to whom the bucket would go.

Strange thing, that, and Padric could never quite sort out how it came about. Man alone like he was had to be careful, and when one day the dogs went off barking up a fury, he had grabbed his sharpest ax and stomped off to see what was the matter. The matter was an orc, and in all the generations of meetings between orcs and men there had been only one ending. Yet this was no orc like any he had seen or heard of. The creature was bent and scrawny and trying fruitlessly to find shelter in a bramble bush to escape the dogs' frantic haranguing. Padric swung his ax up to finish the thing … and could not let it fall. He could see its ribs, the angular shift of collarbone and shoulder blades under skin like bleached leather and the tattered remnants of some sort of clothing. A swollen, oozing gash in its leg might be one reason for its miserable condition. The creature just lay there and stared up at him with utterly empty eyes, and the only movement was in the clawed bones of its hands, twitching without thought or governance.

So Padric had called the dogs off, shouldered his ax and walked away. That was nigh on two months ago and it should have ended there, but had not. A few days later he paused in his wood-splitting to have his lunch in the thin winter sunshine, and the dogs started growling again. He looked up, and saw movement in the brush towards the creek. It was the orc, hunched like a hare just a twitch from running, and it stared at the fat sandwich in his hand. Padric never knew what prompted him, but he had gotten up, bid the dogs to heel, and walked down to leave the sandwich at the edge of the wood. Of course the orc had fled the moment he stood up, but the sandwich was gone moments later.

Since then… well, he sometimes had leftovers to spare and the dogs were fat, so every two or three days he trekked down to the stream and left whatever gleanings his small kitchen could provide. Sometimes he saw the orc, sometimes not, but it seemed to prosper even on the little Padric had to share and somehow that ugly wound healed.

Now he squinted ahead through the thin ranks of trees, hearing the gurgle of the stream just beyond and his own padded footsteps, softened by a thick layer of grey fallen leaves. Perhaps the orc would not be here today - but then he saw a shadow move among the barren saplings.

"Ah, there ye are," Padric said gruffly.

He kept a wary eye on the orc, for he knew better than to get too close or turn his back on the creature. Charity did not mean the abandonment of good sense. However, as always the orc hung back, and sank to its haunches to watch him approach. Yes, it was not his imagination; the orc did have a little more meat on its bones. There was no reading the expression on that ugly, inhuman face any more than he could read the face of a turtle, but Padric grinned to see the orc lift its misshapen nose to sniff the breeze.

"Aye, got sommat good today," he said. "Neighbor's wife brought up a shepherd's pie. Figured you could eat the bit left."

The orc did not speak nor make any sound. It never had, and sometimes he thought the thing might be mute. No matter. The dark times were past, and a dram of kindness never hurt anybody. Padric grunted as he bent over the battered pan laying in the leaves, and dumped the contents of the bucket into it.

"There ye go. Eat up. Maybe next time she'll make some of her corn chowder, eh?"

The man glanced over his shoulder as he turned away, and kept one eye back as he returned his feet to the narrow path. As always, however, the orc simply slouched forward to crouch over the pan and began to eat. With a grunt Padric turned his attention to the climb back up towards the house, empty bucket swinging in his hand.

He was almost to the porch when his dogs rose to their feet, staring past him with growls rumbling in their chests. Puzzled, he turned to look back and saw the orc standing hunched at the foot of the path. Getting bold, the creature was. It had never come this close before.

Padric faced the orc and said sternly, "I don't have any more. Go on back, now."

It straightened, staring at him. The small hairs began to rise on his neck, but Padric scowled back at it.

"You go on, now. Maybe I'll have some more tomorrow."

Then both dogs bayed like very furies and exploded from the porch, barking frantically with every hair on end … as two more shadows moved from the wood. The bucket hit the ground and was still rolling amidst the pandemonium when Padric slammed open the door of his house and burst inside. Behind him one dog shrieked and fell silent while the other barked savagely on - and he had just found his old sword when that dog screamed and spoke no more. He turned as heavy feet thudded on the porch and a shadow filled his doorway.

Looking up, Padric the woodcutter saw Death.

xxx

TBC ...

_ Deepest apologies, gentle readers, for the lapse in updates. Your hobbit-editor was overcome by the arrival of spring, and forgot to come in from the garden ..._ ;-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_27th February  
__Henneth Annûn_

The February weather continued bright and warm, or at least warm in comparison to the previous month. Gone were the snows that had left Northern Ithilien covered in an uncommon blanket of white. Gone also were the rains, which had washed away the snow, along with half the roads. A few residents of Henneth Annûn mourned the passing of the snow; and even a few regretted the cessation of the rain, speaking hopefully of a wet March.

Jasimir, son of Cameroth, was certainly not of their number. For the youth had the unfortunate title of jack-of-all-trades but master of none. Therefore it fell to him to keep the floors of the common room and the downstairs hallways of The Whistling Dog free of mud; a task that at times during the long, wet days of January had seemed to be rather like trying to halt the flow of the Anduin with one's bare hands. The harsh looks and words earned by the boy because of repeated attempts to avoid the futile chore had succeeded in dampening his spirits far more than the rain itself. However, with the warm days of February, Jasimir had rediscovered his normal exuberance and once again taken up his favorite sport: finding ways to antagonize Sira.

Upon occasion, his baiting of the buxom barmaid had earned him more than harsh words, either in the form of the assignment of some of the more noxious chores to be done, or a wallop from either his father or Sira herself. At the moment however, Jasimir felt safe, at least from his father, who seemed to have at last reached the end of his patience with Sira.

During the past two weeks, the barmaid had begun to neglect her duties. She was frequently late, sometimes not turning up at all, and there were increasing instances of her staying out all night. Despite the dislike he had for Sira, Jasimir was forced to admit such events had rarely occurred before. And while Cameroth had treated outrageous flirtations with the customers, sulky moods and occasional episodes of outright criminal behavior as trivialities, dereliction of her duties was a situation he was not prepared to accept.

"WHERE IS SHE?" roared the innkeeper entering the kitchen to find his son standing at a small corner table surrounded by fresh loaves of bread and several jam pots.

Through a mouthful of jam-laden bread, Jasimir asked, "Who? Sira?"

"And who else would I be searching for? She's supposed to be upstairs helping Pansy change the linens." Cameroth pointed a finger to the ceiling.

"Dunno." The boy swallowed, then said, "But I'll go up and help Pansy, if you want?"

"Don't you have your own chores to do? Is the common room…"

"Finished the common room half an hour ago. And I helped Jareth restock the bar. Geralt was in here a while ago and said to tell you the stables are finished for the morning. Reynulf left me to take the bread out of the oven, so the two of them could head over to the horse sale." Jasimir waved a hand toward the freshly baked bread. "Can I go too after I help Pansy?"

"Good lad, Jasimir." Cameroth said after taking a quick look out of the pass-through to the common room to see the chairs stacked upon the tables and the floor neatly swept. "Never mind about Pansy, I sent Elspeth up to help her. You make sure that you're back to help serve lunch. There'll be a big crowd with all the people in town."

Jasimir nodded and concentrated on smoothing out the layer of golden apple jelly he had begun spreading on a new slice of bread. "Reynulf said he's got the stew pot simmering and everything will be ready."

Lifting the cover of the large iron kettle and stirring the contents, Cameroth studied his gangling son. The boy had grown in the last month, and not just in inches, though he had done that also and was well on his way to becoming taller than his father. Ever since Jasimir had been sent on that trip to The Burping Troll near the first of the month, there had been a definite change for the better.

Replacing the lid with a clang, Cameroth wiped his hands on his apron and said, "Ask Jareth to give you a handful of coppers, Jas. You've earned them. And if you happen to see Sira while you're out and about, tell her if she expects to have a job tomorrow she better show up to serve lunch today."

Jasimir's eyes lit up. That would be a message he would enjoy delivering. "Why do you put up with her, Dad? She's nothing but trouble. Elspeth is much nicer. And she'd love to move out of the scullery. She's got a younger brother who could start in as a pot boy."

Cameroth sighed. Sira had been trouble for years; but she was a distant cousin of his long departed wife, thus he felt obligated to watch out for the girl. Woman, he corrected himself. Sira was certainly no innocent maid and had not been for years; but until now, she had conducted herself with at least a façade of decorum.

"Never you mind. You just deliver the message if you see her."

Jasimir shrugged and tucked half a loaf of bread into the pocket of his brightly colored vest. "She's out with that Margul fellow, I'll bet. Though anyone can see he's too smart for her."

Jasimir cocked his head and waited, hoping that his father would give up some new information on this rather interesting relationship. Margul had appeared in Henneth Annûn around the end of the previous month. While no one was certain exactly what his business was, he always had plenty of coin. Furthermore, he seemed willing to spread it about. While that explained Sira's interest in the man, Jasimir was confused as to what the man saw in her.

"It's not her brains the man's interested in, my boy." Cameroth returned with a short laugh.

Jasimir gave his father a wilting look. "I know that. But surely, there's something more? He could get that from any number of girls. Tess, that blonde at The Black Cauldron is better looking than Sira, and a lot nicer too."

"How would you know?" Cameroth responded sternly. "I've told you to stay away from there. It's not a respectable place."

"Well, it's certainly not very clean," Jasimir said without thinking. Hastily, as his father began to glower, he began, "Tess was in the market one day, and…"

The boy stopped as he realized that he couldn't very well admit to helping the woman carry an armload of parcels into the very tavern he'd been ordered to avoid.

"Uh…well…"

Cameroth shook his head. "Let's just leave it at that, shall we, son? You go on off to the horse sale, and be back on time."

Thankful to escape without a lecture, Jasimir hastened out to the common room to collect a few coins from Jareth before snatching up a cloth cap of a brilliant green that would set teeth on edge, then racing out the main door.

xxx

Whistling merrily, Jasimir made his way down the main street of Henneth Annûn, contemplating his surroundings. While the only appellation suitable to such a collection of businesses was village, the place had grown tremendously since his father had arrived here less than a year after the War of the Ring. Initially, the community had been a mere handful of buildings designed to serve the needs of men assigned duty a few miles westward in the refuge under the falls. When the surrounding area was cleared of marauding orcs and a small contingent of elves engaged in reforestation efforts established a settlement along the river, it was decided to build a more permanent garrison. Gradually, the families of Guardsmen had moved in, along with a few hardy businessmen who, like Cameroth, were looking for opportunities to rebuild their lives in places free of memory.

Located approximately one day's journeying north of the Crossroads with the road through the ruins of Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, the village had gladly taken on the task of keeping supplied the many crews sent by Lord Faramir to repair the King's Road. Not content with merely providing sustenance for their bodies, Henneth Annûn undertook to fill the needs of their spirits as well. As a matter of fact, it could now boast four taverns, though only The Whistling Dog was considered respectable, traveling troupes of actors preformed regularly at the playhouse created in makeshift quarters on the eastern edge of town, and the local wine merchant did a booming business.

Jasimir knew every shop, from weapon smith to dressmaker, lapidary to apothecary, feed merchant to confectioner. He made a point of knowing every person in the village, the guards, Rangers, businessmen, goodwives, all of the children, and every farmer and farmhand from miles around. He had even stealthily watched the elves of Morgaran's household practicing their archery, though he doubted he himself had remained unobserved by their keen eyes. Still his curiosity was insatiable; who to trust, who to be wary of, who might one day turn like a savage beast? He blinked to erase sudden memories of the war. His father might wish him to shun certain places and people, but his own youthful wisdom bid him understand everyone. Thus he had met and almost liked the orcs, Lorgarth and Corbat, especially when contrasted with their employer, Drath. That thought reminded him of his quest to find the recalcitrant barmaid.

Darting down the lane leading north from the main street toward the livery and carting company managed by Alfgard of Rohan, Jasimir scanned the doorways open to catch the morning air in search of Sira. He knew the room kept by Margul was on the southern edge of town nearer to the river, and honestly did not expect to see her. Thus, when he caught sight of her near a stand offering cream filled buns for sale, coppery curls gleaming beneath a straw bonnet trimmed with a pink silk ribbon, he came to such an abrupt halt that the grey-haired goodwife who had been on his heels crashed into him with a loud exclamation.

At the sound, Sira turned to sniff disdainfully in his direction, then remarked loudly. "Some people have no idea of proper manners."

Apologizing swiftly to the elderly woman, Jasimir gave the buxom barmaid a superior look. "And some people won't have a job if they don't remember their duties."

Sira tossed her head airily. "Perhaps I won't need that job any longer."

"Why? You found an easier way to make your living?"

The baker's boy snickered then withdrew as Sira turned a narrow-eyed glare in his direction. Rounding on Jasimir, she hissed, "If you ever say that about me in public, I'll…"

"Why? Most of the public hereabouts knows who you are, and what you'll do for a few coins."

"That's not true." Sira stamped her foot before shaking her head most fetchingly. "It's not like that; Margul's going to take me with him when he leaves this sorry excuse for a town."

Jasimir stared open mouthed at the barmaid, as she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her pleated skirts with the most vapid expression on her face. Surely the silly wench did not believe the man really cared for her.

Closing his mouth with a snap, he said slowly, "And just when will you both be leaving? I'm sure Dad would like to know."

"Oh, not until the end of March. Margul's got business dealings to attend to in the area."

"And what business would that be?" Jasimir asked innocently.

"His own business," a cool voice said from behind Jasimir.

Sira flushed guiltily then regained her aplomb as Cullen stepped up to take her elbow.

Jasimir's jaw dropped once again, for though he had heard from Tiroc's daughter that her brother had given up his drinking to run errands for the mysterious Margul, he had not realized the enormity of the changes. Gone was the young farmhand in his worn vest and thick boots. Instead, there was now a vision of sartorial elegance that even managed to outshine Jasimir's trademark yellow stockings and brilliant blue jacket. An embroidered vest covered a cream colored shirt trimmed with narrow lace at the cuffs and neck. A thin dagger rested in a sheath at his waist and tall leather riding boots reached almost to his knees.

"Hello, Jasimir. How have you been?" Even his face seemed to have altered. There was now a hint of something being hidden from view, whereas before Cullen's every thought was plain for the world to see.

"Fine, just fine." Jasimir resisted the urge to babble on. "I heard from your sister that you are working for Margul. You must be doing quite well."

Cullen glanced down at his clothing and said, "Yes, you might say that."

"Exactly what do you do? And do you have any openings for me? I'd love to be able to buy a pair of boots like that." Jasimir cast an envious look at the polished leather.

Cullen brushed at his sleeve and chuckled. "No openings right now, Jas." Then in an offhand manner added, "I heard that you were working for Sevilodorf of Rohan. Some sort of stones?"

Jasimir shrugged. "A one time only deal. She needed them brought to Henneth Annûn. I had accompanied a lady to The Burping Troll and was on my way back home; so she asked me to deliver them to Etharon, the lapidary."

"How fortunate you were available," remarked Cullen, giving Sira a stern glance as she began to fidget with impatience. To Jasimir's amazement, the girl merely pursed her lips and released an exasperated sigh.

Cullen winked at Jasimir's startled expression, then tossed a coin to the baker's boy and waved Sira toward the buns.

Stepping back into the alley and glancing casually around to ensure that no one was paying them any mind, Cullen slid an arm about Jasimir's shoulders and said, "On second thought, there might be a coin or two available for you after all, Jas."

Careful not to show how much he wanted to throw off the young man's arm, Jasimir gave him a bright look. "How's that, Cullen?"

"Just see to it that word is sent to The Black Cauldron whenever Sevilodorf of Rohan or any of those from The Burping Troll are in town. They do frequent your inn, do they not?"

Irritation swelled up inside Jasimir and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "And where else would they go? The Black Cauldron? Ladies and hobbits and elves can't be spending their evenings at such places."

Cullen said, "It's not such a bad place. And they might feel more comfortable there, as their pets might be allowed to enter as well."

"Pets?" Jasimir stared into Cullen's strangely passive face with puzzlement, not noticing the soft footsteps approaching.

"Orcs, you fool. He means the orcs that they keep out there for pets," said Sira, waving her arm in the opposite direction from The Burping Troll. Licking her fingers free of sticky cream, her face settled into the distasteful expression that she often wore when Sevilodorf was mentioned.

Jasimir ignored her, thinking that more should have been her punishment for assisting in the kidnapping and attempted murder of the hobbits, Milo and Camellia, than the multi-colored hair dying that Sevilodorf had exacted.

"Those orcs don't come into town. They don't want to." Jasimir recalled his brief meeting with Gubbitch and his lads during his one visit to The Burping Troll.

Cullen frowned. "But I've heard they are treated as people; allowed to sit in the main room for meals."

"Your father had an orc working for him. Didn't he eat with you?"

"No. Even my father was not so misguided as to allow that. Rablot ate separately, in the barn, with the rest of the cattle."

"The rest of the cattle?" Jasimir was having difficulty understanding this 'new' Cullen.

"Yes, orcs are quite capable of some tasks, and one should ensure the health and welfare of the useful amongst them. But they are not people and should not be treated as such, but more like good horses or oxen."

A memory flitted through Jasimir's mind, of Gubbitch dusting off a tree stump and insisting that Sevilodorf sit and not lift a finger while his "lads" loaded the assorted stones they had brought to trade. Then a further recollection of the mountainous Lugbac grinning crookedly and looking rather embarrassed as the Rohirrim trader congratulated him on gathering the most stones. Knowing his father's opinion on orcs, he had not mentioned the fact that he had actually spent a morning among them; though he had admitted to seeing a warg.

As the new, though not improved, Cullen had voiced similar opinions, Jasimir held his tongue once again, providing Sira with an opportunity to say, "That must explain it."

The two youths regarded her with confusion.

Rolling her eyes, she exclaimed, "Don't you understand. She's Rohirrim and probably used to eating with her horses. So to make her feel at home they let the creatures inside."

Jasimir gave her a disgusted look and drew breath to retort, but the older youth intervened, saying quietly, "Sira, this is business. Go wait in front of the dressmaker's until I can escort you to Margul."

At the sound of Margul's name, Sira's eyes widened; and with only a flip of her coppery curls, she turned on her heel and threaded her way through the growing crowd. Jasimir was undecided whether it was love or fear that had flashed across her face; however, he was certain he did not want to accept any coins for providing information about Sevilodorf or any other resident of The Burping Troll. But how to get out the situation gracefully?

Luckily Jasimir was saved the trouble of making up an excuse; Cullen gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I know you'll be able to find me, Jas. And it won't be long before you've earned enough for your own riding boots."

Forcing an eager smile, the lad muttered noncommittally as Cullen clinched the deal with a clap on the back and a quick goodbye. Jasimir watched carefully as Cullen took Sira by the arm and led her through the growing throng of people moving toward the enclosures holding the best horseflesh in Middle Earth, or at least that's what the auctioneer could be heard to say repeatedly. Dipping his hand into his pocket, Jasimir pulled out the coppers given to him by Jareth a short while ago.

"One of those sticky buns," he said to the baker's boy as he flipped the coin into an outstretched palm. Somehow everything always seemed better after food.

xxx

_Road north of Henneth Annûn_

"I don't expect to finish my business until tomorrow morning, so we will meet you here shortly after noon. You're certain you'll be all right?" Sev scrutinised the small lea that Warg had selected.

Though spring was over a month away, Ithilien seemed determined to prove it still deserved the title "Garden of Gondor." Shielded from the road by a copse of trees, the clearing was peaceful in the late morning sun. Pale yellow flowers dotted the new green grasses stirring with the occasional puff of morning breeze, which carried the gentle gurgling of water to the ears of the people and animals standing around the trader's cart.

Warg - for warg she was; a great wolfish dark grey creature at least three feet tall at her thickly-furred shoulder - chuffed softly at Sevilodorf 's concern. "Now, you're sounding like lover boy over there."

Erin giggled behind the spray of yellow flowers in her hand and glanced up to catch Anardil's pained expression. Bad enough that the Troll's queer extended family included a warg; this one possessed both the power of speech and a disconcertingly sly sense of humor.

"Eru forbid!" Sev exclaimed and Warg's tongue lolled over white fangs in a slit-eyed grin.

Shaking her head, Sev motioned to Erin to regain her seat in the trading cart. As the hobbit lass scrambled up in a flurry of petticoats, the Rohirrim trader stepped over to tug at a buckle on Anardil's saddlebag.

"You should have asked Aerio to fix this for you," she scolded softly as he turned to stand beside her. "The leather's almost worn through."

"I'll get it repaired in Minas Tirith." He gave a wry grin as he fingered the reins in his hand. "I'm sure to have many spare hours. The Council is not known for making hasty decisions."

"Then I won't expect you back too soon." Giving the buckle a final tug, Sev added, "Remember, you do not need to spend your entire time in the White City alone."

Anardil smiled slightly. "Yes, I know. Your relatives would be more than happy to entertain me."

"Happy to have the chance to interrogate you is more like it," Sev returned quickly. "But they are there if you become bored or lonely. Besides you might as well have Baran stabled," she gave the gelding's shoulder a pat, "with Esiwmas, for he'll give you a good rate."

"As you did on the pony biscuits?"

Sev slanted an amused look up into his laughing grey eyes. "Is it my fault you didn't consider all the factors before you shook hands - or paws - on the deal?"

"You, my dear, are a devious woman." Then, as their attention was captured by the sound of Erin's laughter at something Warg said, his face grew serious. "Sev…"

"We will manage," she stated firmly. "Go on to Minas Tirith and give your report to the Council. The sooner you go, the sooner you will return."

Conceding that it was useless to restart the battle over her selection of the hobbit as an escort in Henneth Annûn, Anardil merely observed archly, "You've obviously never had to deal with the Grand Council."

"And sincerely hope that I never will." Sev lifted her face for a swift kiss, though his fingers clung briefly to hers as she turned away.

Then with a farewell to Warg she climbed up to join Erin, gathered the lines and gave Dream the command to walk out. Anardil's gelding stepped forward also but obeyed the tug on its rein to remain standing beside its master, where it looked after its departing stable mate with wistfully pricked ears.

Watching until the cart regained the road and became hidden by the trees, Anardil was stirred from his reverie by a nudge against his hip. He looked down at Warg's huge head and keenly intelligent eyes.

"She is of the pack," the warg stated gruffly. "I will not let any harm come to her."

"I know you'll do your best, Warg. She's a lodestone for trouble, though." Anardil shrugged in resignation and swung up into his saddle before continuing. "With luck, I'll be back within the week."

Giving a farewell nod, Anardil urged Baran into a trot and headed toward the road. In moments his hoof beats clattered out of hearing for all but the sharpest ears.

Under the drooping branches of the largest pine, Warg settled with her head upon her paws. Considering her options, she slowly came to a decision. She would have to seek a partner, or perhaps, given Sev's unfortunate disposition toward trouble, more than one. Casting an eye at the sun overhead, Warg sighed. It would be best to wait until dark, for it would do no one any good if an arrow skewered her as she attempted to sneak into Henneth Annûn. Giving her paw a disconsolate lick, she decided the best thing she could do was to take a nap. Everything always seemed better after a nap.

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Erin's eyes widened as Sev carefully maneuvered her cart in the narrow lane leading north away from the main street. She had never seen Henneth Annûn so busy. It seemed there were people everywhere. Swiveling on the seat to try to take in everything at once, the hobbit waved and smiled to whomever greeted her. Hobbits after all were not of these southern lands, so the lasses and one lad who lived and worked at The Burping Troll had become notable by hearsay if not by name.

"Is it market day?" she asked with a bounce.

"Not that I know of," Sev replied shortly, her eyes focused on the mincing pace of two overfed geldings blocking her way. "That's usually the first and third Saturdays of each month at this time of year. Unless I've lost count, today is Sunday the twenty-seventh, by Shire reckoning, of course."

Reconciling the variety of calendars utilized by the assorted residents of the Troll had resulted in many a headache. Declaring that the Shire's method of record keeping made the most sense, Sev had chosen to adopt the hobbit method of time keeping exclusively, leaving the calculation of equivalent dates in the Gondorian or Elvish calendars to the more mathematically inclined.

Erin's lips moved slightly and her fingers wiggled as she counted out the days. "No, you're right. So, where did all the people come from?"

Sev shrugged. "Where ever they came from, they all seem to be going the same way. Toward the delivery company belonging to my cousin, Esiwmas."

Erin nodded her agreement. After the war, Sev's cousins had expanded their family holdings beyond the borders of Rohan by establishing trade routes connecting many cities of Elessar's kingdom with those of Rohan. In Henneth Annûn, the family's representative, Alfgard, had turned a small trading outpost into a burgeoning business supplying the mounts for the way stations set up for the King's Messengers.

But even the King's Messengers would be hampered by this throng. Muttering curses in Rohirric about the fact that horses were given four legs in order to be faster than two, Sevilodorf fumed impatiently at their pace. Suddenly hauling back on the lines, she prevented Dream from taking a nip out of the well-rounded rear of one of the horses, which had now come to a complete stop in front of them.

In exasperation, she exclaimed, "The slowest grandsire in Rohan moves faster than those two. Whatever is going on?"

Erin said brightly, "Let me hop down and run ahead to find out."

Before Sev could say 'aye or nay' the hobbit lass had disappeared over the side and been swallowed by the crowd.

"Nmad." Sev cursed explosively, and stood up to shout, "Come back here, Erin!"

A flapping wave of a tiny hand and the shimmer of a curly head weaving amongst the taller forms were the only responses she received.

Unnoticed, a well-dressed man smiled slightly as he watched the Rohirrim woman settle back onto her seat in frustration. Stepping away from the wall, which had been supporting his lithe frame admirably, he slipped into the stream of people and began to close the gap on the small figure of the hobbit.

xxx

TBC ...


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_27th February  
__Henneth Annûn_

As Tiroc made his way towards the horse auction, he reflected how, during the past few weeks, he had enjoyed more success with his campaign to champion orcs than he had initially thought possible.

The people of Henneth Annûn were, as he had told Darien, interested most in putting the past behind them. They had become accustomed to the idea of orcs and assorted eccentricities through the reports about the doings at The Burping Troll. The presence of a cadre of Ithilien Rangers and the knowledge that many of the Fair Folk also chose to make The Burping Troll their home had gone a long way to soothing any worries they might have had about the more exotic residents. It had become quite the fad among the more adventuresome to travel north to spend an evening gaping open mouthed at the Warg snoring away on the hearth and the smoldering figure of the Balrog serving drinks behind the bar.

So it was a pity that Tiroc's youngest son, whom he hardly recognised any more, held such opposing views. The farmer knew Cullen was easily led, and he suspected that many of the words the lad spoke recently originated from Margul's mouth - the man who seemed have bought his loyalty. What was it Cullen last said on the matter?

_'While we may use orcs for particular tasks, it was not acceptable to treat them in any way as human'_

Such a phrase could not have been born in Cullen's mind. Tiroc had heard Sira express very similar opinions in very similar words; she was another who had fallen under the influence of the interloper, and there were yet others. The village was becoming divided; many on the side of Tiroc, even more who did not want to express any opinion, and a vociferous minority who were vehemently opposed to accepting orcs as 'people'.

xxx

Cullen was breathless. After delivering Sira to Margul, he had sprinted back to the main road, which was clogged with traffic. His intention was to see if the specialist vintner shop had managed to acquire a new supply of pipe-weed. Though rare and quite expensive, the youth had a fancy to try it out. He had a vision of himself holding an elegant, smouldering pipe, his mouth issuing perfectly formed smoke-rings. However, before he reached the store, he spied Sevilodorf's cart in the distance. Thus he had sprinted again to let his master know the Rohirrim was arriving. In response, Margul dispatched Sira back to her duties at The Whistling Dog; the barmaid practically speechless with rage that Sevilodorf seemed once again to be considered more important than her.

Once Sira had departed, Margul asked Cullen for a detailed description of the cart and its occupants. He then directed Cullen to station himself on the main street near the apothecary's shop in the event the Rohirrim chose to go there first. Margul said he would position himself at the corner of the lane serving as Henneth Annûn's main thoroughfare and the narrower winding path to the location being used for the horse auction.

Cullen had yet again rushed to obey his master's instructions. Now, from his vantage point, he watched Sevilodorf drive past and he saw the hobbit abandon the wagon. He smiled to see the small lass's headlong flight through the throng of seeming giants. Then he noticed Margul following; somewhere inside him a shadow fell, the first shade of misgiving. Throwing off the uncomfortable thought, Cullen decided that his instructions were no longer valid. Sevilodorf had moved on. He drew a fresh breath and followed quickly after Margul.

The youth saw his master pause at the corner of the large field where a bright green and white striped awning sheltered the auctioneer presiding over the temporary pen housing an assorted herd; horses of all colors and types gleamed from careful grooming, from sturdy little ponies suitable for farm work to heavy draft animals to tall, leggy saddle horses whose necks arched proudly beneath silken manes. Several boys were employed in handling the animals, which would momentarily include leading them through their paces beneath the keen eyes of the spectators crowding the fences and stands. Special steeds would be exhibited by dexterous horsemanship employing only a halter and rope for reins and as sale time drew near, prospective buyers eyed them closely for faults or hidden flaws.

Of the hobbit, Cullen at first saw no sign. Then he caught sight of a mop of dancing curls near the hastily constructed stands already more than half-filled with the residents of Henneth Annûn. The hobbit was speaking eagerly to a boy wearing familiar bright yellow stockings, a vivid blue coat and a sickly green cap - Jasimir, of course.

Cullen looked again for Margul. The man was walking towards the hobbit … then, for no discernable reason, he altered his course, heading for the other end of the seating. If his master intended to sit and enjoy the auction, Cullen decided he would do likewise. The youth wandered off into the crowd.

xxx

Margul climbed up to take a seat beside Rathard the knifesmith. Stroking the hilt of his narrow dagger in an absentminded manner, Margul nodded toward the fence line where a lean man with ashy blonde hair was escorting Jasimir, the hobbit lass and the trader woman to seats under the auctioneer's awning.

"That is a rather odd assortment to rate superior seating." Margul's smile invited Rathard to join him in his amusement.

"A trifle," Rathard replied pleasantly, after following Margul's gaze. "But simply a matter of who you know. The lady is a member of the Rohirrim family owning the yard, and the halfling is a friend of hers. As for Jasimir," Rathard grinned. "Why, the boy's always in the best place to be."

"Is he now?" He is certainly noticeable."

"Aye." The knifesmith chuckled. "No one else would be caught wearing such an array of colors. But he's a very clever lad."

"Cleverness at that age can get boys into all sorts of bother with their incessant curiosity."

Rathard grinned his agreement then embarked on a series of long-winded tales concerning the antics Jasimir had been involved in over the past few years. Margul nodded or gave an encouraging gesture whenever the man seemed about to wind down. Meanwhile, all around them the business of the horse sale continued.

xxx

At noon, the auctioneer called a two-hour break for lunch. Margul smiled at the sight of Jasimir racing away on his long legs in a vain attempt to beat the crowds back to the soon-to-be-overwhelmed common room of The Whistling Dog. Excusing himself from Rathard's invitation to join him for the noon meal, he made his way as quickly as possible back to his rooms on the southern side of town.

Cullen opened the door when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

"Ah, I guessed rightly." Cullen winked at the man and pointed to the covered tray sitting on the small table with the room's only chair before it. "I brought it up a few minutes ago, so it's certain to still be warm. Sira said to tell you she baked the bread herself."

Margul made no reply to this patently impossible claim and settled into the chair. Indicating that Cullen should pull up the low stool and join him, he removed the napkin from the tray and dipped a spoon into the thick stew.

The youth took up the second bowl and ate hungrily. Whoever had baked the bread, it was good. After briefly mentioning that Cullen might be required to make another journey soon, Margul fell silent, both of them attending only to the food.

"Will you be needing me this afternoon?" Cullen finally asked, wiping the last of the crumbs from the table.

"No, I believe I will go back to the horse auction. There are several fine animals on display there. Though not all are from Rohan."

Cullen nodded sagely. "They'd be sure to get the best, though, wouldn't they? I mean, they trade all over the kingdom."

"How is it that Sevilodorf the trader is connected with them?" Margul said idly toying with the knife that Cullen had used to slice the small round of cheese.

Frowning, Cullen answered, "I'm not exactly certain. She was here alone before they came in. Would you like me to ask Jasimir? He'd probably know. He's been doing some special jobs for her. Besides I asked him to tell me whenever she came to town."

Aligning the knife precisely with the edge of the tray, Margul enquired quietly, "You asked Jasimir to tell you this?"

The utter lack of expression in his employer's cold voice disconcerted Cullen, and he stammered, "Uh, well, yes, she does stay at The Whistling Dog whenever she's in Henneth Annûn, and I only thought…"

"You thought."

"Well…uh… yes… it only…"

"Cullen," Margul's voice was icy. "I don't pay you to think. I believed I had made it clear that you were to follow my instructions, nothing more, nothing less."

"But I thought …"

"Be silent," Margul hissed, driving the knife's tip into the tabletop.

Cullen cringed and felt the stew turn to lead in his belly.

Margul spoke slowly, as if to a dullard. "Jasimir thinks. If I had wanted an assistant who thinks, I would have chosen him. Jasimir is naught but questions. You ask him to tell you when the trader woman comes to town. He thinks 'why?' Then he goes to the trader woman and asks 'why is someone asking about you?' Cullen, you have disappointed me."

The man's eyes flashed like steel. His words belied the message his voice carried.

Cullen stared at the pale hand resting ominously on the handle of the upright knife. Margul was his only chance of becoming rich enough to move to Minas Tirith. Pieces of half-digested meat rose into his throat and, for a moment, he dare not speak. Then he gathered his wits.

Setting aside the threat confronting him, and his earlier misgivings, the youth abased himself. "I'm sorry, Margul. I will never again do anything without asking you first. I was only trying to help, but I see that was a mistake. Please give me another chance."

Margul remained still for a terrible moment. Then he lifted his hand from the knife and held out his palm. "Serve me as I ask, and I will reward you. Why do you imagine I am interested in the auction? I have the finest mount I could ask for. Cullen, I was looking for a suitable horse for my right-hand man, for you!"

The relief that swept through the youth would have been shameful at any other time, but here and now it felt like someone had lifted a heavy boot off his chest. The silver-green eyes gazed at him with only benign intent, and the next emotion Cullen knew was that of a miscreant child who had been forgiven a particularly stupid mistake.

"For me?" he said, and winced inwardly at the squeak in his voice. But a horse of his own … a horse fine enough to pass through a Rohirrim-owned sale yard … "I don't know what to say! That - that -."

"Is only fitting." Margul's lips curved in a small smile. He braced his hands on the table and rose to his feet. "Now take back the tray, I have business to attend to. But do not forget."

With that he turned, swung his cloak about his shoulders and in seconds was out the door and gone. Cullen sat in the silence trying to sort out the tangle of his thoughts, and to shrug away the lingering sense of unease that nibbled the back of his mind. Think about the horse, he told himself. For the first time in his life he would have a proper mount, not some placid, plodding farm animal, and Margul would be his benefactor. All the man had really asked was that Cullen keep his business private. That was not so unreasonable, was it?

Thus pacified, he stacked the bowls and began running names through his mind; what would be suitable for a gentleman's steed?

xxx

_Deerham_

The circuit judge arrived in Deerham at noon with a pair of escorts, one a soldier, the other a smallish, wiry man with black hair and swarthy skin. Darien watched from his room window, his view shaded by the overhanging thatch. The soldier peeled off to ride to the guard station. The other two guided their horses towards the tavern. The judge was recognisable only by his staff of office but the dusky rider Darien knew well. A feeling of warmth lit his mood. He tidied his papers and made his way downstairs to meet his comrade, Horus.

Pausing in the hallway, Darien waited while the innkeeper greeted the new arrivals. It was apparent that Dunstan had met the judge before, but he seemed somewhat at a loss with the very foreign-looking stranger.

Stepping out into the room, Darien called, "Horus. Well met."

Horus smiled broadly, his teeth astonishingly white in his dark face. Though he spoke Westron as well as any man, the odd lilt of Far Harad lent music to his greeting.

"Darien! I was told you would still be here."

They did not shake hands or pat each other on the back; both men were too reserved for such displays. But anyone who knew them well enough would have recognised the relief and pleasure they both felt at their reunion. Horus eyed Darien's bruises, which were now fading to a bilious green. Then he introduced the judge as Lord Goldur, explaining briefly that they had met at Emyn Arnen and, as they were heading for the same place, decided to travel together.

The portly Goldur remarked jovially, "I thought he would be company on the road and tell me stories of far-flung places. But all he did was ask questions and leave me to do the talking." His eyes twinkled as he wagged a finger and added, "Ah well, it will be different this afternoon; that is when I get to ask questions."

Turning to the innkeeper, the judge explained, "We'll have the hearing in the tavern as usual, Dunstan. In the meantime, I'd appreciate a bite to eat and something to wash down the dust. And I'll need a room for the night. It will be too late to travel back after we're done with the interviews and paperwork."

Within a matter of minutes, the judge, Darien and Horus were seated in the 'cosy corner' attacking platters of bread, ham, cheese and pickles, pausing only to drink from tankards of sweet cider. As their appetites abated, the conversation picked up. Goldur asked nothing about the case he was here to preside over, which Darien noted as proof of the man's professionalism. Instead, the judge remarked that he had heard that Darien was gathering evidence about orcs.

"I know of a situation that might interest to you," Goldur said. "Up in the hills near the mouth of the Tumladen there are men mining coal. They sent an appeal for help against a band of orcs that kept attacking them. The soldiers who went to assist found a very unusual set up. There was indeed a bunch of very unpleasant orcs that had to be dealt with, but there were also three orcs working with the miners, and they had fought against their own kind during the attacks."

"That certainly would interest me," Darien stated with some verve. "Do you know the exact location?"

"I know enough for you to find them. Bring me a map this evening, and I'll show you." The judge drained his tankard. "Now I better get to work."

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Odors of horse and food warred for dominance as Margul rejoined the sale-yard crowd. Several local entrepreneurs had wheeled out carts of eatables for sale to those who did not leave to find proper dining, and at least one clever fellow was braising meat over a small iron firepot. The stands nearby were again beginning to fill as prospective buyers returned to their places, for the sale would resume within the half hour. As people milled amiably about, Margul moved unobtrusively among them.

Erin the hobbit had enjoyed a most splendid lunch. If there was one thing the Rohirrim could be credited on, it was setting a good board. Alfgard and his household had not disappointed when they received Sev and Erin as welcome guests. But then again, such tall and strapping folk simply had to eat a lot, or they would all wisp away to nothing. Nonetheless, the lure of warm, fresh-baked sticky buns was just the thing to fill in the corners of a hobbit's ample stomach, and so she munched contentedly while waiting for Sev to finish dickering over something-or-other in the local tinsmith's shop.

Horse sales attracted an interesting variety of folks; that was a certainty. Tall folks and small folks, large folks and skinny folks, some who looked like they would be fine as a Rohirrim in the saddle and others who looked as if they would be hard-pressed to haul themselves aboard a wagon. Some bore the weathered faces of farmers, their wise eyes shuttered against glib sales talk as they keenly surveyed the animals being presented. Others clearly were well-to-do, seeking either fancy saddle horses or fine teams for their carriages. And then there was the whip-thin dandy suddenly standing before her, staring at her with a rather peculiar smile.

Erin frowned as she sucked frosting from her fingers. "Hello," she said.

"You're a halfling!" the man exclaimed.

He was handsome as a peacock amidst the sale crowd, what with his wine-colored velvet, fur-lined cape and supple leather boots, although his thin stature suggested he did not keep company with proper cooks. Fine gloves encased his slender hands; not a man who lent himself to real work, then.

"Yes, I am," she replied, and gave a sudden cheeky grin. "And you're skinny."

The man gave a depreciating chuckle as he stepped closer. "So my mother said. Forgive my boldness, my dear, but I have never seen a halfling before. You are a very long way from the North. Are you here on holiday?"

"Oh no, I live here now." Frowning in concentration she pulled a piece off the sticky bun and ate it. "Well, not here, but up the road a ways at The Inn of The Burping Troll. You know, if you came there we could feed you up properly. Nobody knows how to fill a hungry belly like good hobbit cooks."

"That sounds enticing. You say cooks. Are you not the only one?"

"Oh, no. Meri and Camellia live there, too, and Milo, who is Camellia's beau, but he works in the stables and helps around the place." Erin gave a dimpled grin. "We don't let him in the kitchen too much."

Again the man chuckled gently, giving Erin the sense that he never truly laughed out loud, or for that matter did anything in the way of exuberance. Even his posture was poised and contained, his eyes shifting often to the stir of humanity around them. And such strange eyes they were, a pale hue that she took to be green, but somehow the color seemed to change in the light.

"Men do not really belong in a kitchen," he allowed with a small smile. "I would hope you are not alone here, however. So many big horses and big people - you must take care, my dear."

"Oh, I am careful. My friend, Sevi, is just in a shop over there, and anyhow I have my own horse at home. I'm not scared of big horses any more."

"Ah. Have you many friends here? I would think you might miss your home in the Shire."

"Oh, I have lots of friends. There are Rangers and elves and other Big Folk, and all of Alfgard's family - they are putting on this sale - are very nice. Anyhow, as long as I have Meri and Camellia, I don't get too homesick."

"That is well, my dear. A pretty lass should have lots of friends." Cocking his head the man assumed a dubious look. "Elves, you say. That is most unusual. From all I have heard, the Fair Folk keep to themselves. How does a halfling meet elves?"

"They live here!" Erin munched another bite of sweet bread. "Silly, don't you know that Legolas brought some of his folk down to Ithilien from Mirkwood?"

Something seemed to cool in the man's demeanor, although the indulgent little smile remained in place. "I am not from around here, my dear."

"Obviously." She popped the last bit of sticky bun into her mouth. "Well, there are lots of elves; you just don't see them much. They mostly stay out in the forests and such, but they come into The Burping Troll when they want real food, and sometimes they come into Henneth Annûn."

"You don't say?" He lifted his head to scan the crowd. "Are any here with you today? I dare say I have seen as little of elves as I have halflings."

"No, Sevi just asked me to come along." Erin frowned as she licked the last frosting from her fingers, for despite his questions, this composed, careful man did not really seem the sort to crave views of exotic people. "We're nearly out of cheese and wholly out of buttermilk, you see, so before we go we must stop by the dairyman's."

"Then you travel the road alone, just the two of you? My dear, that would seem perilous for two unattended ladies."

The hobbit lass opened her mouth to protest that a warg escort hardly fell under the heading of unattended, but then shut it. There was no reason for anyone to know Warg waited for them just outside town, and certainly not a stranger.

"We are careful," she replied. "And we can take care of ourselves."

"I'm sure you can, my dear."

Now that thin smile was beginning to rankle. And if he said "my dear" just one more time….

"Perhaps I will find time to visit your Burping Troll," the man said. "Certainly I would not wish to miss out on a good meal. Will you and your friend be in town long? Perhaps we may journey together." His smile deepened but oddly never quite touched his eyes. "I know I would not wish to try that road all alone. They say there are many dangers yet lingering in the wild."

If ever a fabrication was spoken, that was it, for Erin could not imagine this man having the least fear of going anywhere he pleased, or at least not so that he would wish the company of two women. Why he would mention it she could not imagine, and she found herself wondering if his fancy clothes and superior demeanor indicated one of those chaps who simply had to lord over someone, even if it was just two fellow travelers for a day. Suddenly she wished Sev would hurry up and come back outside.

"I'm afraid I don't know how long we'll be, sir," she replied primly. "But there are often men or dwarves from the road crews or even King's messengers traveling, and you might find companions among them."

"Of course." The man's mouth smiled but his silver-green eyes suddenly seemed flat as pewter.

Then a jangling crash turned every head for yards around; there on the cobbled street lay a bewildered-looking young man, sprawled all akimbo amidst a tumble of spilled sticky buns and two tin trays.

"You blithering fool, Kerwin!" shouted the owner of the handcart. "How could you not see me? You walked right into me!"

When Erin looked back, the strange dandy man was nowhere to be seen.

xxx

_Deerham_

The hearing into Oswyn's murder and Tobias' death was a sombre affair as befitted the circumstances. Many people sat in silent audience to events. Captain Gethrod provided most of the evidence, though Tilmith, Avis and Darien were called to give their accounts. The judge examined the haul of stolen valuables, the 'lucky' coin, and the orc blade. He briefly noted the report from The Burping Troll. The facts were overwhelming.

Lord Goldur announced his verdict. "I find that Tobias was guilty of murdering and robbing Farmer Oswyn. He was further guilty of the attempted murders of his wife, Avis, and of Lord Darien of Silverbrook. Captain Gethrod, in the course of his assigned duties, lawfully killed Tobias to prevent the attempted murders from taking place. If there is anyone who has reason or evidence to contradict these findings, let them speak out now."

The judge paused for several moments, allowing the silence of the onlookers to confirm his conclusions. He peered around the room before speaking again. "The stolen valuables belong to Oswyn's niece, as his nearest living relative, the orc blade will be retained by the realm. I declare this hearing closed."

xxx

TBC ...


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_27th February  
__Henneth Annûn_

Dinner at the Whistling Dog had been good enough, Erin reflected, but not as good as the lunch Alfgard's family had provided. Perhaps the dozen or so people talking and eating at the long tables knew no better, but a hobbit was keenly aware of such things. Cameroth needed to tell his cook to put more sage in the lamb stew, and the pie crust had been rolled until it was nearly shoe leather. The hobbit sighed and propped her chin in her hand, watching Sev trace a finger slowly down the list on the table between them.

The Rohirrim murmured softly to herself as she read; "Candles … lamp oil … writing paper … ink …"

"Don't forget sealing wax," Erin offered.

Without looking up, Sev replied, "Already got that."

"I think all that's left is to visit the dairyman tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, cheese and buttermilk. But I want to make sure we're not overlooking anything that we'll remember halfway home."

"Hmm," Erin replied, and let her attention drift around the common room.

Their day had been a busy one, the two of them marching from one shop to the next filling the order of sundries needed back home at The Burping Troll. Running an inn required many things both large and small, and while their elf and Ranger friends could keep meat in the larder and brought many herbs of the woods, there were some things that required craftsman and tradesmen who could only be found in Henneth Annûn.

Erin had enjoyed watching part of the horse sale, and was only too pleased to look at the seamstress Mistress Devana's new cloth samples from local weavers, and the baker had ever so kindly given samples of his new butterscotch apple stickies. However … just a little bit of an adventure would have been nice.

Next she thought of the man with the strange green eyes whom she had met, and wondered who he was. A minor noble, perhaps, certainly a person of substance, but just as certainly not from around here. The encounter was not an adventure, of course, but anyone so curious and so chilly at once was certainly an oddity. As soon as Sev put down her lists Erin would tell about him.

Over by the front window three local fellows also sat over plates of supper, and Erin recognized Rathard the knifesmith as well as the tanner's newest journeyman whose name she did not recall. The third, youngest fellow caught her eye, but though familiarity niggled she could not seem to place him. He was well-dressed, as a young gentleman should be, but the foolish lad slouched like a ditch-digger and leaned over his ale tankard as if afraid it would leap out of his arms and run away.

"Sevi, who is that by the window? The young one with the pint and the fancy waistcoat?"

Sev glanced up and her mouth thinned in a faint grimace of disapproval. "That is farmer Tiroc's youngest son, Cullen."

"Oh!" Erin's eyebrows sprang up then dropped to a puzzled frown. "Why, so it is, but I don't remember him dressing so fancy before."

"He didn't. Evidently he has come into some money, though as hard as his father works to support that family, I'd think it could be put to better use."

As if sensing their attention, Cullen looked up. Upon meeting Sev's disapproving eye his face twisted into a sneer and he lifted his tankard in mocking salute. Sev simply gave a snort and returned to her notes, but Erin scowled back as hard as she could. Cullen paid no heed, however, and turned back to his companions with a derisive laugh.

Even with the rumble of other voices in the common room, Erin's sharp hobbit ears could hear their conversation, if she listened closely.

"Who is that?" the tanner asked.

"Sevilodorf the trader woman," Rathard replied.

"She lives up at The Burping Troll," Cullen added. "Consorts with orcs and the like, you know."

Rathard frowned. "Now, Cullen, I don't know if that's the choice of words I'd use."

"Would you prefer I sweeten them?" Cullen gave a knowing grin before taking a sturdy draught from his tankard. Lowering it he said, "She trades with the creatures, she talks with them, they say she can even go to their lairs with complete impunity. Now what normal woman does that?"

"Didn't your father keep an orc?" the tanner asked.

"The same as we keep oxen or horses. I certainly would not associate with him beyond work, and heaven forbid I ever visited one of his ghastly lairs."

A theatrical shudder clenched Cullen's shoulders and the tanner chuckled.

"Aye, it's hard to fathom anyone who would seek the creatures out, no matter how tame they might seem. And for a woman to do so…" The tanner did not finish the thought but grimaced as he took another bite of his supper.

"It's unnatural," Cullen stated.

Forgetting that she was eavesdropping, or perhaps not caring, Erin shot straight out of her chair. "Why, YOU -!"

_CRASH-CLANGLE-CLANGLE-CLANGLE_

Every head in the place snapped towards the source of the din, which proved to be by the common room's back door. There lay a gangling, dark-haired young man flat on his back, the last of several bowls and tankards jangling to stillness at his feet. Over him stood Pansy, with an empty tray in one hand, the other fisted on her hip and pure frustration on her pretty face.

"For pity's sake!" she exclaimed. "You should know better than to burst in a door like that! You're lucky those were empty, or you'd have scalding hot soup all over you!"

The youth sat up carefully - and a tankard rolled from his lap with a jarring clank. Blushing to the roots of his hair, he became flustered between trying to gather the spilled crockery and picking bits of carrot off the soup-and-ale spattered front of his coat.

"I'm s-sorry, miss. I'm very - I truly - I didn't - uh -."

"Oh, here!" People began chuckling as Pansy flounced to kneel beside him, where she whipped a towel from her apron. "I'll get the dishes; you use this to clean yourself up. Then go sit down before you really hurt yourself."

"Yes, mistress. I'm very sorry. I'm -."

But Pansy was already up and swiftly gathering dishes back onto her tray. With a sigh, the youth began wiping at his coat, and conversation about the room resumed.

"Well," Sev observed, "That's one way to make an entrance."

"Poor man," said Erin. "He did the same thing at the baker's cart today, at the horse sale."

Sev's blue eyes widened. "He did?"

"Yes, he walked right into the cart." The hobbit leaned closer to whisper, "I think he's accident prone."

"You don't say."

Both watched as the young man stood up, peered warily all around, and aimed himself very precisely towards an empty table. Perhaps today's adventure was simply in observing the various oddities of people, Erin reflected, and then remembered the man with the strange eyes.

"Oh, Sev, I met a most peculiar man today. Are you through with your lists? Because if you are, I thought we could get some tea and maybe a bit of cake, and I'll tell you about him and all the people I saw today."

"All the people?" A smile quirked one side of Sev's lips.

"Well, not all of them, but the most interesting ones. One man had green eyes - actual green eyes are not very common, are they? Anyhow, he looked like some sort of gentleman, but he was a little peculiar, you see, and -."

With indulgent patience Sev settled herself to listen to the hobbit's merry chatter. Although both had seen the very same places and most of the same people all day, Sev knew it was simply her diminutive companion's habit to re-hash a day's events, and perhaps a little extra dessert would not be a bad thing.

xxx

_Deerham_

After the evening meal, Darien and Horus sat with Lord Goldur, Captain Gethrod and Tilmith. Horus had been allocated a room for the night, and it seemed the innkeeper's wife was rather taken with her 'exotic' guest - the judge complained amiably that his travelling companion had the best room in the tavern, the one normally reserved for himself.

Darien laid his map out on the table for Goldur to point out the location of the coal miners.

The guard captain watched and listened with interest. He finally said, "You can only visit so many places, Darien. Go to the miners by all means, but why not also ask guards and rangers to send you their reports, then you can concentrate on the more unusual situations. The king's men may be relied upon to give an unbiased account of happenings in their areas."

"The authorities did not want to be compromised by my investigation," Darien explained.

"Nor will they be. That you receive copies of any documents involving orcs will not compromise anyone. Leave it to me. I take it that your base for this purpose is The Burping Troll. I can circulate the suggestion that relevant reports are sent to Captain Halbarad."

With this assurance, Darien agreed willingly to the plan. He felt less isolated now, having gained assistance from a judge and the King's Soldiers, and with a well-trusted comrade at his side. The small group spent the remainder of the evening exchanging news and listening to Lord Goldur's entertaining tales of unlikely trials and hearings that he had presided over. Thus Darien's last night in Deerham passed in pleasant companionship and good humour.

xxx

_Henneth Annûn_

Warg had dozed the afternoon away, occasionally awakened by the sounds of travelers on the nearby road. Entertaining herself with thoughts of how those passing by would react if she made herself known to them, she chuffed softly and returned to her slumbers until the winter sun faded from the sky.

After stretching, her bones popping loudly as the twilight deepened into darkness, the huge canine shook her massive head and set out upon the course she had determined would bring her to the boundaries of Henneth Annûn without notice. Though Warg's eyesight was keen, her sense of smell was even better, allowing her to locate prey from almost a mile away. For now, however, she merely catalogued the enticing scents of deer and rabbit. Hunting was for later, after she had settled the matter of enlisting assistance.

As she trotted through the dark brush parallel to the road, she picked up the scent of the dairyman's herds on the northern edge of the village. Giving a small sigh of regret that she had long ago promised Celebsul that she would regard the animals belonging to men as off limits, Warg continued past the tightly shut barns, trying to find comfort in the thought of the pony biscuits Sev would distribute the next day.

Crouched at last under the thick hedges lining the King's Road where it met the lane west of the village, she waited for what seemed an endless parade of men to pass. Her ears pricked up as she listened to their talk about the horse auction that had taken place that day. Wondering briefly if such an event would cause a delay for Sevilodorf, she darted across the road and into the ditch on the other side. She snorted softly at the slimy water she found there and shook a wet paw with irritation before crawling up the slippery slope to vanish into the underbrush. Perhaps, she would have been better off going the long way round.

Reaching the banks of what the villagers liked to call a river, Warg turned west for a short distance before joining the shadows of a row of sheds cobbled together from bits of cast off lumber. Not a single line was to plumb, and several looked as if a hard sneeze would cause them to tumble into the silver stream that ran by. Though heavy with the scent of orc, nary a one of the rickety structures was occupied, and Warg settled against the farthest most shed to wait, a shadow among shadows.

From her vantage point could be seen a dimly lit rectangle of an open doorway, through which burst the high-pitched shrieking laugh of a human female. Not once did the unseen woman laugh, but again and again, and the sharpness of the sound caused Warg to wince and close her eyes tightly. A mashed pup didn't make a yowl like that - and supposedly this was a human feeling happy. Moments later a chorus of off-key voices, several which seemed to know only one word out of every six, replaced the laughter, and Warg stifled a groan. Much more of this torture and she would force lover boy to come up with a bucket of haggis regardless of the bargain she had struck.

Thankfully for sensitive ears, the choir members stopped singing and began to quarrel. While the sound of breaking crockery and smashing chairs would not be music to the ears of the proprietor, it was a vast improvement by Warg's standards.

Suddenly from the dimness of the doorway, a misshapen figure lurched clutching a large pot closely to its chest. The aroma wafting up from the pot would turn even the strongest of stomachs, apparently composed of what had once been soup plus rotten cabbage and rancid pork, all obviously aged beyond human tolerability but nectar to an orc. It also served to disguise the scent of the warg until the bearer of this malodorous burden was almost on top of her.

Nostrils flaring and the contents of the pot sloshing precariously close to the rim, Corbat the orc, stopped in mid step. After glancing back at the doorway, the creature peered into the shadows and whispered harshly, "I's smells ya, I does. What'cha doin' this close ta town?"

"Share your dinner with me, and I'll tell you," replied Warg quietly.

Corbat considered the deal with regret. This was the first time in a month he'd gotten the pot all for himself. Usually he had to share its contents with three others, leaving him always on the edge of hunger. Tonight, Lorgarth and the other two orcs who lived here behind The Black Cauldron were off doing some job for the owner, Drath, and that grim man, Margul. Still, one warg was better than three orcs. Maybe she could be convinced to hunt down a rabbit or two to bring back later that night, as there was no way he would be able to escape the tavern for longer than Drath figured it would take him to eat.

"Jus' makes sure ya shares," Corbat said, and carried the pot into the shed farthest from the tavern.

There was no need to light one of the stubby candles as both orc and warg were well able to see clearly by the faint gleam of starlight. Corbat filled a battered tin bowl and set it on the floor, then he searched out a bent ladle and applied himself to the job of eating as much as he could directly from the pot, before Warg could ask for seconds.

Lifting the last goblet of fat from the pot and tossing it casually into his mouth, Corbat belched juicily before speaking.

"T'aint safe fer ya ta be 'ere."

Warg grinned wolfishly and said, "Not getting scared of the humans are you, Corbat?"

"Things've changed since ya come last." Corbat was uncertain how to explain the difference in the village.

Ears pricked with interest, Warg replied, "How's that?"

The orc tugged at the iron hoop dangling from his ear in confusion. He'd never had to do any thinking on his own before the war and was frequently in a state of almost panic at the lack of direction his life had now. Things were somewhat better since Lorgarth had found him and brought him to this place. The food, though not always enough, was no worse than he had had in the pits of Minas Morgul; and though the man, Drath, often gave orders that confused him, Corbat found comfort in the familiarity of his outbursts of rage.

"Hard ta explain. Sum folks be nicer, others be meaner."

Warg added this bit of information to what she already possessed and decided that perhaps she would be earning her fee from Anardil after all.

"Can you name the meaner ones?" Warg asked.

Corbat frowned, and shifted uncomfortably. He hated to disappoint Warg, for that might mean she wouldn't go hunt him a rabbit to munch on later tonight. But he was forced to admit that most men looked alike to him, and unless he had reason to know them he seldom learned their names.

Warg sighed. She should have known this was not going to be an easy job. She should have just considered a month of hobbit-served haggis as sufficient and gone back to licking the floors clean. At least with that job, she got to sleep on the warm hearth instead of under a pine tree.

"CORBAT!" an angry roar cut through the night.

"Comin', Master Drath," Corbat shouted and gathered up the empty pot. Motioning Warg to stay behind, the orc lumbered out of the shed and to the backdoor of the tavern.

"You give me that," Drath ordered, "and you take this message over to The Whistling Dog and deliver it to Master Cullen."

Corbat's yellow eyes widened in fear, and he crouched down before the towering ham-fisted tavern keeper, stammering, "I … I …cain't go there, Master Drath."

Drath raised a fist and clouted the orc alongside the head. "If that's where I say you'll go, you'll go, or get out now and don't come back!"

Struggling to control the impulse to attack, Corbat huddled close to the ground and whimpered. "Wouldn't do no good for me ta go to there. They won't let me in."

"You'll just have to stand in the street and howl until Cullen comes out," Drath mocked, and then roared, "Now get your lazy carcass up and get going!"

In feeble protest Corbat shook his head. "But Master Drath, I don't know who Master Cullen is. I'll give it ta the wrong un."

"Margul's boy, you idiot!" Drath thundered. "Surely you know who Margul is!"

Mention of Margul's name was sufficient to energize the orc to at least attempt the task. The man's cold silver eyes reminded him of the moonlight shining on the walls of Minas Morgul. Corbat would do anything to keep those eyes from looking his way. Practically grabbing the folded scrap of paper from Drath's hands, the orc headed toward the road.

"Hold up there!" Drath barked, and Corbat nearly dropped in his tracks. "Can't have you going off looking like that. Give The Black Cauldron a bad name you will. You got grease hanging from your eyebrows. Go wash your face in the river first." He waved a thick arm toward the water, and disappeared back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Corbat stood frozen with indecisiveness. Which order was he to obey first? A soft scratching drew his attention, and he saw Warg lifting her muzzle to him from the shadows.

Following the animal to the river, Corbat hissed, "What'll I do? They don't allow orcs in The Whistling Dog, but if I don't take the message that Margul feller will be after me."

"Is he one of the ones who got meaner?"

"Nah, he's alus been mean. Freezes your insides ta look at 'im." The orc shuddered at he splashed water on to his face, being careful not to get the note wet.

"Do what the man said. Stand outside and howl. Someone will come out." Warg stopped. "The Whistling Dog…you said?"

"Yeah," said Corbat sorrowfully, wishing that Lorgarth was here to tell him what to do.

"If you'll deliver a message for me, I'll bring you a brace of rabbits later."

Even the offer of a meal of fresh rabbit was not enough to overcome the orc's surge of terror. "Ya don't know Master Margul's boy, do ya? Are ya one of his?"

"Not Margul's boy. Another one."

For a moment Corbat was relieved, then panic threatened to overwhelm him once again. Mournfully, he wailed, "How'm I supposed ta find 'im?"

"Easier than you think. He'll be the one who comes out when you howl for this Cullen, or I'm a hobbit."

'Ya aren't an 'obbit," said Corbat in confusion.

"I know that," Warg sighed. It was so difficult having a sense of humor with most orcs. "Just tell Jasimir that … that the person he had dinner with in the kitchen at the Troll would like to meet him. Tell him to come here as soon as he can."

Corbat's eyes glazed over. "I can't remember all that. "

"Yes, you can." Warg insisted and forced the orc to repeat the message several times.

Finally, she sent him on his way muttering 'dinner in the kitchen, dinner in the kitchen' repeatedly to himself. Sighing, Warg shook her heavy head and settled herself to wait. It was truly a marvel how these creatures had managed to be the terror of civilized Men for so long. Sometimes she suspected there were unseen handicaps inherent to having only two legs.

xxx

Corbat slunk from building to building, shadow to shadow, much like the alley cats whom he startled into desperately scrambling escape. However, he had no mind for any creatures but humans and his fear grew with every step. The Whistling Dog did not allow his kind, he knew that, and a vague memory teased just out of reach, that its owner had in fact been a soldier which gave him even less reason to love orcs. Not only that but Rangers went there, tall, grim men with eyes like steel blades and he had seen those eyes in the Bad Times and never ever wanted to face them again.

Last but not least, however … was the miserable quandary of how he was supposed to deliver not one but two messages, to two different human boys. Granted, one was paper and one was words out loud, but what if he mixed them up? Cullen was paper, Jasimir was words - but the orc was supposed to howl and that would bring Jasimir out first, and somehow that would get the paper to Cullen … Corbat's head was beginning to hurt.

Only too soon the windows of The Whistling Dog beamed in cheery squares ahead, spilling their light onto the cobbles out front. The orc avoided that light, however, and slunk next to the building and crouched between the wall and an empty wagon. It was much quieter here than at The Black Cauldron, the voices that drifted through the windows rumbling in easy conversation that only occasionally was punctured by hearty laughter. Corbat could not hear one broken plate or a single argument. That did not make him feel in the least welcome.

Jasimir and Cullen, Cullen and Jasimir … he clutched the now-wrinkled note in his grimy paw and tried not to imagine Master Margul's icy gaze. How was an orc supposed to find anyone in this place? Stand outside and howl, Warg had said …

And so he did.

Corbat walked out into the center of the cobblestone yard where he tilted back his head, filled his lungs, and howled as loud as ever he could. He yowled and he howled and he howled and he yowled, and he swayed back and forth as he howled some more. Doors slammed, voices shouted, dogs wailed, cats screeched, babies cried and two pregnant mothers spontaneously went into labor.

Amidst all the racket, the front door of The Whistling Dog opened to spill a long golden triangle of light. Then into it stepped, not a squad of Rangers with steely eyes and cold blades, but merely a lad as Warg had predicted. His yellow stockings and vividly checked waistcoat were in direct contrast to the plainness of the apron wrapped around his middle. The youth also wore very puzzled expression. Corbat fell silent, and every owl in Henneth Annûn flew away.

"May I help you?" Jasimir asked, and his query seemed unnaturally loud in the echoing stillness.

"No," Corbat replied. Then he winced and held out the note. "Cullen," he stammered. "An' dinner in the kitchen at the Troll wants to meet ya."

xxx

It took some patience and quick thinking for Jasimir to both convince the town watch, who had appeared in a virtual stampede of drawn weapons, that nothing was amiss, and to convince Corbat to divulge his message with relative coherency. After a lot of coaxing, repetition and a warm leg of roast goose, the youngster finally discerned that the note was for Cullen and that Warg was behind The Black Cauldron waiting for Jasimir. Delivering the note would be a snap, but how was he to escape to meet the warg?

Remembering the disconcertingly intelligent gleam in her yellow eyes, not to mention the sheer, mind-numbing size of the great wolf-creature, Jasimir further wondered what she could want with him. Alone. In the dark. Behind The Black Cauldron. He swallowed and shook his head.

"Don't be a baby," he muttered to himself. "She lives with hobbits, for goodness sake. She can't be that dangerous."

xxx

Not until the last of the pots and pans were scrubbed to his father's satisfaction had Jasimir been able to effect an escape from The Whistling Dog. Yawning widely and muttering complaints about having to get out of bed at dawn to assist Reynulf with another baking, he stumbled up the back stairs toward his room in what he hoped was a convincing display of weariness. Clambering out the window and dropping to the overhang above the kitchen required only minutes, but slipping through the streets without being seen took slightly more time than usual, as the town watch seemed to be everywhere. Something about a howling orc, it seemed. Avoiding them proved simple compared with evading the more difficult-to-spot forms of two of the Rangers stationed in Henneth Annûn; but Jasimir congratulated himself that he had managed to do both.

Now, however, came the more difficult part; convincing himself once more that going into the shadows behind the most disreputable tavern in town to meet a warg was an intelligent thing to do. Forced to come the long way around in his efforts to avoid discovery, Jasimir passed close to the building where he knew Margul kept a second story room. What message had been sent to Cullen? It must have been from Margul, but in the hullabaloo created in front of The Whistling Dog, Jasimir had lost the opportunity to read the missive. Cullen had simply taken the note and tossed him a copper for its delivery before whispering a message into Sira's ear and departing. Whatever the note said, Sira had been in a foul mood for the rest of the evening and cast harsh looks at the table where the hobbit and the Rohirrim trader sat finishing off a small tray of pastries.

"Drat," Jasimir exclaimed softly as he halted near a clump of nettles growing along the river's edge. He had forgotten to tell Sevilodorf about Cullen asking about her.

"You bring any of that lamb stew with you? Though it smells like it could use a bit more sage."

The coarse voice from the shadows shocked Jasimir straight up in the air, and he nearly choked on his own gasp. "Great stars!"

The chuffing sound of the warg's laugh did little to restore his dignity, but Jasimir held back his initial impulse to shout at the warg when he caught sight of the gleaming greenish eyes of an orc behind her.

"Warg, that is not polite!" he hissed, glancing about for any other unexpected company.

"So? I'm a warg. Since when has anyone expected me to be polite? Heh heh heh." Then leaves stirred unseen as both sets of glinting eyes flickered. "Come on, let's get out of sight and then we'll talk."

With some apprehension Jasimir pushed aside bare twigs and stepped onto a small path along the river. As his night vision sharpened he could see Warg slinking before him, as large as a small bear in the shadows, and the crooked silhouette of the orc slouching ahead of her.

"Who's that with you?"

"Corbat," she replied.

"Oh! The one who woke up the whole town howling?"

Warg turned and lazily pivoted and dropped her haunches to sit, the orc sinking to his heels beyond. "Yes, well, he thinks in rather straight lines."

She did not elaborate on that, and so Jasimir warily crouched to take a seat, his hands finding dry grass and cool earth here near the river's edge. Beyond a tangled screen of bare shrubs he could hear the water's gurgling passage. There really was nobody within sight. He wondered if there was anyone within hearing.

"What did you want me for?" he asked. And prayed he would like the answer.

"Well, Corbat here had some interesting things to say."

Moonlight glimmered silver in the warg's disconcertingly steady gaze. It really was not normal for a dog to look a man square in the eyes. Then again, dogs could not talk, either.

"What kind of things?"

Warg shifted in what seemed to be a shrug. "Mainly that there are new scents on the wind, here. Mean people getting meaner. And who is Margul's boy?"

Jasimir found himself fumbling with that unexpected tangent, but then replied, "Cullen, Farmer Tiroc's youngest son."

"Hm. But he works for this Margul? Why is he not home working with his father and his pack? And who is Margul?"

Jasimir sighed. "I don't know. To either question. Cullen all of a sudden seems to have money from working for Margul, but I have no idea what he does. And Margul … I don't know what he does, either. He just seems to have money. And he feels slithery."

"Like a snake," Corbat's rough voice grumbled. "Cold eyes."

"A very well-dressed snake," Jasimir echoed.

Warg made a soft sound that could have been sniffing or perhaps was chuckling, then fell silent a moment. The boy sat patiently, listening to the hidden river's gurgling voice, as he pondered how very odd it was to be sitting in the dark with a warg and an orc. A pity he could not tell anyone - but then who would believe him?

"You know Sevi is in town, right?" Warg finally asked.

"Oh yes, I've spoken to her several times."

"Good. Then you will watch that she doesn't get in trouble, right?" Warg lowered herself to a reclining position, forepaws crossed as she peered off into the shadows. "There are things … changing. I feel it like new weather coming in, but I can't find the scent of it."

"I know. There's a lot of talk in town, especially what with that Lord Darien taking up for the orcs and all."

Warg snorted. "A lot of foolishness, if you ask me. He never asked the orcs what they want. That seems to be something about people who are in charge of things - they always want to be in charge of something more."

Jasimir was not sure how to reply to that, and so he did not. With a sigh, Warg continued.

"Back to what I was saying. You will watch that Sev does not find trouble?"

"Yes."

"Good. I do what I can out here, but … heh heh heh, people tend to get a little silly if they actually see me."

A vision of a pony-sized warg strolling though the streets of Henneth Annûn sparked a grin on the boy's face. "Yes, I think they would."

"If you see anything, if you find anything and need help, you'll tell Lorgarth and he'll find me."

"Lorgarth?"

"Yes, he's the orc pack-leader here. You really don't want to know how hard it is to send a message through Corbat."

Remembering the ear-splitting howl in the yard of The Whistling Dog, Jasimir replied, "Well, I know how hard it is to receive one."

"Ay," grumbled Corbat. "I give the message."

"Of course you did, Corbat," Warg said in soothing tones - or as soothing as her growling voice allowed. "But isn't it much easier to let Logarth do the thinking?"

"Uh … yeah."

"My point. Anyhow, Jasimir, I'm trusting you to use your ears, cub. Sev cannot see all things."

"I'll be watchful," Jasimir promised, for this was a duty he was more than glad to take on. For one thing, it meant he had even stronger reason to keep snooping around whatever mischief Cullen and Margul were up to.

Then Warg rose, suddenly a massive shadow standing head-and-shoulders above the boy still seated in the grass. "I'll be waiting for Sev when she's ready to go home. You can tell her that. But remember - if you sniff something out, tell Logarth. Not anyone else. I don't trust the humans around here. They are not of the pack."

Whether or not she trusted him was a question Jasimir decided would be best left unspoken. "I will."

The great animal turned - and was gone. Not a twig snapped or a branch rustled to mark where she had passed. Jasimir's breath caught in his throat as he realized he was alone with Corbat's misshapen form. However, the orc simply clambered to his feet and without a word shambled away into the dark. Only then did the boy realize it was actually quite chilly out there, and his warm bed suddenly seemed the best place to be.

xxx

TBC ...


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_28th February  
__Henneth Annûn_

Dawn spilled in chilly gold across the treetops and rooftops of Henneth Annûn as shopkeepers began to ready for business. The first traffic started to move in the rutted streets, and on a curb in front of The Whistling Dog three all-night drunks sat soddenly with their boots in the gutter, attempting with various success to achieve coherent speech. Meanwhile at the door of that inn the trader Sevilodorf rummaged about in the back of her trader's cart.

"I know it's in here … somewhere … I just saw it last night … I swear these things grow legs and walk …"

Erin the hobbit muffled a giggle as she watched and listened to her friend. "If I see any bottles running around, I'll let you know."

"Very funny, hobbit. Here it is. Just for that, you can be the one to take this in to Cameroth. Tell him that his aunt is to take one teaspoon in her tea, when her cough becomes troublesome."

"All right!"

Erin grabbed the bottle Sev held over the cart's side, then turned and was gone in a twinkling. The inn door thudded shut behind her, and Sev shook her head with a faint smile. Then she began repacking the items she had shuffled around in her search.

"Next the dairyman," she muttered.

Out at the street's edge the drunks had apparently abandoned the art of conversation and were now striving for the miracle of vertical mobility. One finally stood, weaving, whereupon Sev frowned as she recognized the tanner's new young journeyman, whom they had seen drinking with Cullen, Tiroc's son, last night. Undoubtedly the tanner was wondering just where his hired help was, since he was not at his work. She snorted as the young man tried to haul one of his comrades upright - and both toppled onto the cobblestones. Just as she turned to step down, the door thudded open behind her.

"All right, Sevi, I think this is it."

Braced on the cart's side, Sev looked and saw that "it" was an enormous covered basket. "Erin, what on earth is that?"

All she could see were eyes and curls above the great basket's rim. "It's a picnic basket."

"I trust you'll have an oliphaunt to carry it, should you ever fill that thing to capacity. Where did you get it?"

"Oh, Cameroth had it; he was going to throw it away. See?" The hobbit hitched a shoulder so she could tip up one end of the big basket. "The handles have broken off, but I thought it would be perfectly fine for storing things in at the Troll."

"Storing what?"

The basket shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm sure we'll think of something."

With a sigh, Sev beckoned hobbit and basket closer. "Bring it here, I'll find some place to stow it."

"Thanks, Sevi!"

Moments later the basket was secured and Sev dropped to the ground. "Now, Erin, if it's all right with you, we'll go -."

"Hoy, trader lady!"

Hobbit and woman turned at that inelegant hail to see the tanner's journeyman and his two friends standing beside their cart horse. The journeyman hiccupped and offered a bleary grin.

"Izzit true you gotta hangover cure?" he slurred.

"Yes," Sev replied warily. "But I've not had time to make any up lately."

"Whazzat?"

"I don't have any with me."

The young man weaved and grabbed at the cart seat to steady himself, where he frowned mightily. "Sure ya do. You alluzh got … got … hic … herb stuff wi' ya."

"I'm afraid I have none today. Now if you'll let me pass -." The journeyman staggered back as Sev strode brusquely towards him and set her foot to the iron stirrup below the wagon seat.

"Wait jush a bleedin' minute!"

Never one to turn her back on a foe, Sev dropped her boot to earth and spun to face him. The look she gave him was murderous, but somehow that effect was lost through the haze of strong drink.

"He's soused," Erin observed sagely. "Cameroth said he had to put them out last night, and then they tried to come back this morning, but he won't have 'em."

"Cam'roth ish a fool," the young tanner growled. "Throwin' out good cushtom - wait'll I tell my friendsh. Hey, trader lady, you got any 'o that hangover cure?"

"No. I have none left."

One of the other drunks then spoke up, giggling and baring a gap that used to hold his front teeth. "Mebbe she shold it all t' the orcs, eh?"

The other man giggled as if that were the funniest thing he ever heard. "Shold it t' the orcs," he echoed.

The journeyman's sullen face darkened. "I bet you would do that, wouldn' ya? Shell t' yer orc friendsh but not t' good men like ush. Cullen tol' ush about you."

"Yeah, Cullen tol' us," the third man echoed.

Sev's reply was acidic. "And Cullen is such a font of timely and accurate information. Erin, get in the cart. We're leaving."

Wide-eyed, the hobbit scampered around the other side of the cart and leapt to the wooden seat as Sev took her place and her horse's lines. Yet ere Dream's hooves clopped two steps, rough hands had seized the driving reins.

"I'm not done talkin' t' you," the tanner snarled. "I wan' a bottle o' hangover cure. I got th' blashted money for it, you know. Not like yer orcs, who prob'ly pay in snails n' rabbit shkins."

"If you had a king's ransom," Sev said tightly, "I would still have no hangover cure, neither for orc nor man. Now unhand my horse!"

Trying to mask her angry desperation she looked up quickly, but it seemed no one else was watching. Across the street she saw movement in a doorway, but the shopkeeper there evidently chose ignorance, and shut his door with an audible clunk.

"Yer lyin'." The young man's face twisted into ugly, ale-fueled lines, and his knuckles whitened on the leather strap in his grasp.

"I'm telling you, let go of my horse!"

"You just don' wanna shell to ush. You'd rather do bizz - bizzn - trade with th' orcs."

"Erin, fetch me the broom!"

The three louts laughed uproariously, as the hobbit spun in her seat to haul a broom from the back of the cart. Sev kept it for cleaning out the cart after her travels, but Erin knew that the Rohirrim woman could do some dreadfully painful things with four feet of sturdy ash pole. The journeyman tanner realized that, too, when the stout staff _cracked_ against the side of the cart.

In the startled silence, Sev said through gritted teeth, "The next one wraps around your thick skull."

Behind her on the seat, Erin now stood fiercely wielding a frying pan also pulled from the back. "Take that, you ruffians!" she cried.

"Witch!" the tanner spat, as he shrank from reach. "Orc-lovin' witch. I bet trade ain't all you do. I bet you consort wish orcs 'cuz you're unnatural. I bet you -."

"I beg your pardon!"

That sharp tenor voice turned all heads at once, to see a thin, dark haired young man with pale handsome features and large brown eyes, who stared back at them with an expression of outrage. In surprise Sev and Erin recognized the clumsy young fellow who had so messily collided with Pansy at supper last night. His gaze on the three miscreants, he took a rigid step forward and stopped, his lips thinning to a look of great severity.

"Your conduct is intolerable," he announced. "Therefore I order you to leave at once!"

The young stranger's long arm whipped out to point sharply towards the street, whilst his other fist planted itself on his hip.

"You order ush?" slurred the journeyman tanner, and his two cronies snickered.

The thin youth blinked his fine dark eyes and seemed baffled that he was being questioned. "Of course I do. No gentleman should address a good woman as you are. You will thank me when you sober up. Now run along. I'm sure your masters are looking for you."

"Run along?" echoed the third drunk.

Sighing deeply, the lanky young man cast the occupants of the cart an apologetic glance before reiterating. "Leave. Go away. You are not wanted here."

"Why, you scrawny lil' -." The tanner lurched towards this new target, his friends grinning behind him. "Yer jush a sissy fancy-pants. I could crack yer shkull with one -."

"HERE NOW!"

That bellow startled Sev's horse into a clattering half-hop and the three drunks leaped straight up in the air. They landed with looks of marvelous dismay as Cameroth's sturdy form filled the doorway of the inn. Behind him lurked two more big men, guests of the inn, all three with bleak scowls aimed at the drunken threesome.

"I thought I told you louts to get out of here," Cameroth growled. He took one step into the yard, the two guests flanking him, and one was reminded that he had been a soldier and knew far more about the artistic cracking of skulls than these three fools ever would. "I don't like repeating myself. Now, GET!"

And they got, but not before the journeyman tanner shouted back, "I'll 'member you, fancy pants! You jush wait!"

Then their staggering steps thudded off up the street and they were gone. In their wake, Cameroth gave a growling sigh and shook his head. Looking up at Sev's furious white face, he grimaced in wry sympathy.

"I'm real sorry about that, Sev. I thought those fools were long gone."

"No harm done," Sev replied, but her words were clipped and she jammed the broom back into its place with angry sharpness.

"And you, young 'un…" Cameroth cast a wary gaze over the lanky young man still standing there. "You done a good thing, but mark my words, you didn't make any friends in those three."

The lad's handsome brow pinched in a puzzled frown. "Why ever would I wish friends such as those? They were base and offensive and rude."

"Point is," Cameroth said patiently, "They'll be watching for you now. Best you stay away from the places they'll be." Turning, the innkeeper looked up at the hobbit and Rohirrim in the cart. "You ladies going to be all right?"

"I believe so," Sev replied. "Thanks to this young man's intervention. I am in your debt, sir."

The youth's thin face suddenly lit in a beautiful but strikingly bashful grin, and his gaze dropped to his worn shoes. "N- no, missus. It was just the right thing."

"'Tis a pity, then," was Sev's acerbic reply, "that more men don't do the right thing."

As she gathered her reins once more, she shot a hard glance across the street, where the shopkeeper was once more timidly peeping out. Then she looked to Cameroth and the other two men and nodded gravely.

"Thank you as well, good sirs. Your arrival was most timely. Now we will be on our way."

"All right, Sev. Be careful."

Then Cameroth and his guests filed back inside, leaving only the skinny lad remaining.

"If it's all right," the youth said, "If you don't mind … I'll just keep watch until you're gone."

Sev halted Dream, who had moved when she felt the change in the reins, and eyed the young man appraisingly. He really was quite a nice-looking lad, in an underfed, esthetically-handsome sort of way, with high cheekbones, clear brown eyes and there had been that brief, brilliant white smile. Yet his clothes though clean looked threadbare and his shoes were badly worn.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"I am Kerwin, mistress."

"I am Sevilodorf."

"And I'm Erin!"

Again that beautiful smile beamed across Kerwin's fine face, but as before he aimed his smile at the ground. "M- my pleasure, ladies." Then he looked up, and for an instant seemed like a wide-eyed little boy. "A hobbit … they say hobbits are such merry folk. I've never met one. And are - are you Rohirrim?"

"Yes, I am." Intrigued, Sev allowed herself this moment of curiosity. "You know my people?"

"Not - not really. But I noted your clothing - and your accent. Forgive me, you speak well, but there is a certain flavor, a flavor in your words. I - That was presumptuous. Forgive me."

Sev snorted and then simply laughed. "Kerwin, I am just Sev, or Sevi to my friends. And I think you had better go to your home, while I go to mine, before we all find further mischief."

"Yes, mistress." He gave a short, nervous laugh. "You will go home. I think I am home, here."

Frowning, she said, "You are living at The Whistling Dog, now?"

"Well … for now. I must find work, though, as my purse is slim. But I will! I - forgive me, my concerns are not your burden." Kerwin collected himself into a very precise bow. "Good day to you … Mistress Sev, Mistress Erin."

The cart pulled forward as Sev sent her instructions to Dream down the leather reins, glad to be at last on the way home. It was a short-lived pleasure. Within seconds, a squeal from Erin, who was peering over her shoulder, brought the journey to an instant halt. Sev turned in her seat to see the cause of the hobbit's dismay. The lanky lad lay spread-eagle in the street.

Abandoning the cart, Erin leaped down and rushed to help. Sev muttered to herself in Rohirric and set down the reins carefully before more slowly stepping down to help. As they reached him, Kerwin pulled himself into a sitting position, rubbing at a cut on his forehead.

"Sling-shot!" the hobbit rapidly concluded, picking up a rounded stone from the ground. She glared angrily about, looking for the culprits.

Sev shook her head in doubt. "None of those three were sober enough to hit an intended target. What happened, Kerwin?"

"I'm not sure." The young man admitted, his thin, handsome face flickering briefly with a sheepish grin. "It - it might have been a sling-shot. Or I may have tripped over my own feet. I'm afraid I do that sometimes. When I'm distracted. Either way, I cannot seem to recall. Oh, dear."

He looked at his fingers in dismay, realizing the wetness he found was blood. Then he blinked as it was beginning to trickle rather alarmingly into his eye. Casting her gaze upwards, Sev realised that their journey home would be necessarily delayed while she tended Kerwin's head wound.

xxx

Cameroth sent a lad to guard Sevilodorf's cart as she bathed Kerwin's cut in the kitchen of The Whistling Dog. Perched on a stool, the young man sat perfectly still with his hands folded in his lap and his ankles crossed - which perhaps seemed the best way to avoid inviting any new catastrophes.

Erin looked on and enquired brightly, "What sort of work are you looking for?"

"Anything, really." Kerwin winced slightly as Sev rubbed a salve into his wound. "I had a good job. I was helping a shopkeeper with his accounts and paperwork. And serving behind the counter."

"But you lost it?" The hobbit frowned in sympathy.

"He said I broke too many things and … and that I was making eyes at his daughter." At the thought Kerwin seemed to shrink his head down into his shoulders - and then grimaced when Sev firmly seized his head to hold it still. "I wasn't, I promise. I wouldn't do such a thing. It would be - would be unseemly. But ... but, yes, I lost the job."

"Accounts and paperwork, you say?" Sev schooled her face as she put the jar of ointment back into her medicine pouch.

Due to Halbarad and Elanna's wedding and her own and Anardil's journey to Rhûn, the ledgers at The Burping Troll were in a state of disarray. The remaining rangers were too busy; the elves, unreliable at anything so staid; as to the hobbits, their attempts at keeping accounts bordered on works of fiction. And Darien was due back soon. No doubt she would become deeply involved in his investigations for a while. This young man seemed pleasant enough, if inordinately accident-prone.

"Do you posses any other skills?" she asked.

His head bobbed up like a fledgling sensing an approaching meal. "I'll turn my hand to anything."

Sev knew she was taking a risk. She doubted Kerwin presented a real danger to anyone other than himself, but there was a possible hazard to her nerves.

With an appraising look, she faced him and said, "If you would consider working for little more than your keep, I might have a temporary job for you at the Inn of The Burping Troll."

Erin glanced up at the two tall people, a broad smile dimpling her rosy cheeks. "Oh yes. What a good idea, Sevi. Then I can feed him up so that he is less thin and doesn't keep falling over from weakness." She bounced over to tug at his sleeve and offer her most disarming smile. "Please say you'll come with us, Kerwin."

Again colour stole up the young man's neck and stained his face in a glorious blush. He looked at the kitchen floor, seemingly searching there for the right words. "Oh … my … I mean … really? A job? Oh, yes. Thank you."

"Thank me later," Sev replied, turning away to gather her things. "After you've seen the work I'm going to throw at you. Just watch your step around there. We have Rangers and elves and all sort of folks carrying sharp, pointy objects."

The Adam's apple sprang up Kerwin's throat then dropped. "Yes, Mistress Sevi. I'll be careful."

The Rohirrim woman paused to glance over her shoulder at the young man; earnest brown eyes, a face like a wounded but very hopeful puppy … smothering a sigh, she beckoned and stepped away.

"Come on, we still have to see the dairyman and I'd like to be home before dark."

"Dark. Yes." Kerwin hopped down from the stool and paused to frown thoughtfully. "The east road - yes, before dark might - yes, that might be a good thing."

But Sev was already heading for the kitchen door. By the time Kerwin had hastily gathered his meager belongings, the Rohirrim woman was outside, and the hobbit lass waited by the entrance, watching him with a rather pointed glance. However, Kerwin offered her a shy smile, for despite his rush he had managed very neatly to avoid the cutting block, the cleaver, the broom, the dust bin, a pot of peeled potatoes and the serving maid's sudden emergence into the kitchen as he was exiting. He had achieved the stairs, both upwards to his now vacated room then back down, without calamity, which in all struck him as a fortuitous start. Out of this final door his future awaited, and he hastened after his new benefactor eagerly.

xxx

_Somewhere near the Druadan Forest_

There were more people gathered outside the woodcutter's humble house than probably had ever been there before. A curious assortment he would have found them, too, from familiar neighbors to strangers in shining mail with tall horses and the livery of Gondor's soldiery. The yard fairly boiled with folk, but though the door was open, nobody seemed willing to go within.

One of the soldiers, who bore himself with the straight confidence of command, spoke to a grey-haired neighbor. "Tell me again what you found, Master Dernan."

Dernan scratched his jaw and frowned thoughtfully. "Like I said, Padric kept to himself since his wife died, but he was a good sort. Me and the missus would stop by, bring a little somethin' to eat, like, and he was supposed to bring me a load of firewood yesterday. He didn't show, and today I thought I'd go see if he was sick. And I found that."

He pointed towards the house, which upon closer examination showed the signs of ill-use. The door was not open so much as ripped from its hinges, a broken chair lay splintered in the doorway, and shadows concealed whatever else lay inside.

"And you say he kept a dog?"

"Two dogs. Good dogs, but they'd let him know when anybody come around. Hate to say it, cap'n, but I think that's all that's left of 'em."

The soldier's gaze followed Dernan's pointing finger. In a scuffed and torn patch of dead grass and leaves were two large, dark splotches of what appeared to be dried blood.

"And you believe this to be the work of orcs, do you?" The soldier fixed his informant with a keen gaze. "Could it not have been robbers or brigands?"

"No, sir. Not human ones, anyhow. Padric didn't have nothin' to steal, anyhow."

"Can you be so sure?"

"Oh, yes."

"How?"

"You want to see him?"

The soldier shifted uneasily as he glanced towards the little house, squatting grim and silent beneath naked trees, with no lamp to cheer the darkness within. "I suppose I must."

"Follow me." Dernan trudged towards the porch. "You'll see why I know it's orcs. Ain't no human man could have done this."

The young captain from the King's army had seen the face of war, had seen men killed in battle or dying of wounds. Yet he could not shed the cold grip of trepidation that clamped ever tighter, and his boots clunked hollowly on the porch.

"Right in there, cap'n. Just look a little to your left, over by that back window."

Gathering his courage, for after all the dead held no power to harm, the soldier took one step inside. And only one step. His hand caught the door frame as he weaved like a man stricken suddenly blind. Then with a retching cough he wheeled and plunged off the porch towards the edge of the yard. There he braced his hands on his knees and heaved until he was empty.

A gnarled hand patted his back, the neighbor come to stand beside him. "Same reaction I had, cap'n. Sorry to spring it on you like that, but I reckoned you had to see for yourself."

"Yes. That's -." He coughed then spat. "Quite all right."

"Here, this'll help."

The captain stared at the dipper of water suddenly before his face, before finding wit to take it and carefully sip the cleansing fluid.

"Shame is," Dernan went on, "I think I know what happened."

"You do?"

"Aye. Man's heart got the better of him. About two months ago he said he found this starvin' orc out in the woods, said he'd taken to puttin' food out for it. Reckon this is how it repaid him. Say, there's more water down at the stream."

Voice still hoarse, the captain replied, "Thank you."

He turned and for the moment ignored the curious eyes of his men. In long strides he followed the little path down to the stream. There he knelt and drank deeply of sweet, cold water, rinsing the ghastly taste from his mouth. Nothing, however, would cleanse the horror from his mind.

As he stood up, he realized a dented pan lay in the weeds several yards away. A pan such as a man might put out for a dog - or perhaps a starving orc. The captain was no Ranger to read signs in a bent twig or tales in a turned leaf, but he was at least clever enough to count. With only a few moments' study he realized that the soft creek bottom soil bore not one set of tracks but three different sets, all the misshapen footprints of orcs. He wheeled and strode back up to the house.

"Look to your weapons, men!" he said. "We will find the creatures that did this. And you, good people, will you care for this poor unfortunate?"

"We will," Dernan replied. "Least we can do for him."

Moments later hooves thudded and harness jingled as the soldiers found their saddles. Their task would be to hunt down the predators that had done this terrible deed, but as they clattered away, the captain looked back to the murmuring knot of folk left behind. Grim as his task might be, he had seen what the orcs left of Padric the woodcutter and thought their chore the worse by far.

xxx

TBC ...


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_28th February  
__Road north of Henneth Annûn_

Though Sev had hoped that by starting off early they would be able to complete their trading in the village and get home sooner than planned, it was not to be. First there was the run in with the lay-abouts outside The Whistling Dog. Next, the treatment of Kerwin's head wound. After that had been the delay at the delivery company, where even the normally calm Alfgard had been reduced to clutching his hair in frustration, as the goods that were supposed to be ready simply could not be found.

Finally there was the unfortunate incident at the dairyman's. How Kerwin had managed to open the gate leading from the pasture to the road, Sev would never understand. Dairy cows are the most gentle of things, but their very docility made all efforts at hindering their slowly-lumbering charge out the gate utterly futile. Perhaps the experience of having to round up the herd under the direction of a glaring farmer, his wife and a visibly-frustrated dog would prove sufficient to prevent a repetition of the situation. Certainly it appeared that Kerwin's tongue hung out farther than the dog's, when that last set of bovine hips trundled back into the pasture. If Sev didn't feel so obligated to him for intervening with those drunkards, she would have taken the young man back to the village and left him on the steps of The Whistling Dog, no matter what Erin said.

Nearing the overgrown turn off to the meadow where Warg was to be waiting, she exchanged glances with Erin, who now sat sandwiched between the taller humans, and asked, "Do you want to warn him, or shall I?"

Erin gave a mischievous grin. "Maybe we should just let him find out on his own."

Kerwin blinked himself from whatever reverie he had been lost in. "W-warn me?"

"Aye," Sev said in a grave voice. "You see, those drunks were not entirely wrong in their opinions.'

"They weren't?" Kerwin blinked his big brown eyes with an innocence that belied his perhaps-eighteen years.

"No. I'm afraid that there are several rather unnatural things at The Burping Troll."

"Now, Sevi, don't exaggerate," Erin said sternly. "They aren't unnatural. Unnatural would be something with two heads or six arms."

"You will at least allow unusual?"

"I think I prefer exotic." Erin tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Or maybe eclectic?"

Looking from tall woman to small woman and back again, Kerwin listened to this exchange without receiving much enlightenment.

"Excuse me ladies, but what could be considered exotic?"

"I imagine I would," answered a growling voice from beside the right wheel.

Kerwin looked down as Erin squealed, "Wargy!" and he met the coppery eyes of the Warg without blinking. In truth, he was uncertain he could blink, or move or breathe. Sev drew to a halt to allow the hobbit to scramble over Kerwin - who appeared to have petrified in his seat - and drop down to give Warg an enormous hug.

"W-warg?" he stuttered finally.

Of course it was a warg, obviously it was a warg; wolves did not grow to the size of yearling steers. Then again, neither wolves nor wargs suffered themselves to be embraced by hobbits or fed treats from their pockets, nor did they stand politely beside carts populated by horses and people and all sorts of highly-edible …

"Yes. And a talking one, at that." Sev's mild reply stalled the frantic race of Kerwin's thoughts. "She's a resident at The Burping Troll."

"A member of the family, you mean," said Erin firmly, both short arms still wrapped around the animal's thick neck. "Warg, this is Kerwin. He's coming to live at the Troll for a while."

The youth's strange paralysis did not seem to be abating, and he continued to stare down at the bizarre spectacle of hobbit and Warg, together. No blood. No fangs showing. Nobody eating anybody. No -.

"He's not coming to sweep the floors, is he?" said Warg, and somehow that growling voice conveyed a worried tone. The hobbit's overwhelming sense of cleanliness meant that there were fewer and fewer crumbs left for her to scavenge from the floor.

"No, silly," said Erin. "Don't worry. We'll leave the crumbs for you as always. Kerwin's going to help Sevi with the accounts."

Warg heaved a small sigh of relief and eyed the thin young man. "Needs some fattening up I'd say or someone's going to mistake him for the broom."

Kerwin regained just enough of his voice to stammer again, "W-warg."

"Aye," Sev replied, "and not the most exotic of the Troll's residents. How do you feel about elves, orcs and balrogs? Not necessarily in that order."

He blinked - finally realizing that the burning in his vision was his eyeballs drying out. Then he turned wide eyes from the hobbit resting a tiny hand on the warg's head, to the Rohirrim lady studying him gravely, to the warg panting in a way that seemed suspiciously like laughter. Kerwin felt the cart sway beneath him, and was gratified to realize it really was the cart; the Rohirrim mare had taken a step forward and jostled them. And since the warg really was not preparing to eat anyone, and she had been polite enough, he decided he really should remember his manners.

Squaring his shoulders, he faced the warg and said pleasantly, if a trifle squeakily, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kerwin, son of Gestor."

"Good man, Kerwin," Sev said as Erin clapped her hands happily. "Warg's our escort. Climb back up, Erin, and let's move on down the road a way before we stop for some lunch."

As the hobbit accepted the hand Kerwin reached down for her, Warg turned and gave a short yip. Invisible to any but a Warg's senses, the orc Corbat heeded her signal and eased his way back into the undergrowth and headed south back towards Henneth Annûn.

xxx

_Tumladen_

Darien and Horus had ridden out at dawn. They estimated the journey to the coalmine near Tumladen would take about seven hours, so, despite the short winter days, they should arrive before nightfall. Riding at first through pasturelands, the ground rose steadily as they drew closer to the mountains. The two men spoke little; Horus told his leader of how Darien's holding in the Blackroot Vale fared, and answered specific questions about the people there and the condition of the two injured lads. It seemed that all was well.

As they neared the River Sirith, patches of marsh grass marked out boggy areas. Darien's high-stepping bay picked a delicate path through the tussocks; the sturdy roan that Horus rode followed behind. By the afternoon, the way grew steep and stony as the mighty arms of Tumladen reached craggily towards them. If the tales were to be believed, the namesake of those arms once embraced the fabled city of Gondolin, keeping her safe and hidden. The whole landscape of the world must have changed massively since then, maybe throwing nearer to the surface the seams of coal where miners now worked.

They rode into the shadow of the mountains as the sun began to set. Here the two men found a well-used track between the Sirith and the eastern arm of Tumladen. No doubt the miners brought their coal to the river to transport it to Pelargir where it warmed many a hearth in the ancient city. Setting their horses onto the track, Darien and Horus followed it to the open mouth of a mine set beneath a sheer precipice of black rock.

After searching the area for a while, they found a wide, deep recess in the cliff wall north of the mine. The group of wooden huts nestled together told of an established mining community. Darien and Horus dismounted and led their horses towards the settlement.

As they approached, a sandy-coloured dog with a curly, white-tipped tail emerged from a doorway and started to bark sharply, complaining at the intrusion. A tall, muscular figure came out to investigate. Both men paused. They knew orcs worked alongside men here, but they had not expected to see a towering uruk-hai. Maybe the miners had been killed by a band of hostile uruks - maybe Darien and Horus had walked blindly to their own extinction. They stood rooted to the spot, unsure whether to go forward, run away, or draw their swords.

A slight sigh escaped Darien's mouth as another figure came out of the hut, this one clearly a man.

Dwarfed by the uruk, the miner shouted to them, "Hail! Who are you?"

At this, the dog barked even louder and began to prance around the uruk's feet as if urging him into action.

Darien called back, "Visitors wishing to speak to you. Are we welcome?"

"Aye, if you don't bring trouble." The miner looked up at the uruk then back over towards the hesitant strangers. "Come on then. Don't worry. Ukrosh won't bite, not if you don't bother him." He then looked down, adding, "The dog might though."

The sound of the uruk's deep laughter reached Darien's ears as he watched Ukrosh lean down and pick up the excitable dog with one massive hand.

Horus whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "That seems to have at least partially disabled two potential threats."

Darien snorted quietly and they strode forward with more confidence.

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

"Ouch! That stung," declared Bob, massaging the hand Meri had rapped with a spoon.

"Then keep your hands off," the hobbit lass said, shaking a finger at the ranger. "Those are for Sevi and Erin when they get here."

"Shouldn't they have been back before dinner?" Bob said with a frown.

Meri nodded solemnly. Delays were not unheard of or always avoidable but still it was worrisome. "Sev always tries to arrive before dark, but they do have Warg with them."

Bob accepted the piece of sugared pie crust the hobbit lass handed him with a word of thanks. "Maybe I should ride out and meet them."

"Meet who?" said Halbarad, pausing in the frame of the kitchen's back door to wipe his boots.

"Watch the kitten," cried Meri, as a tiny black and white form hurtled from beneath the table toward the open door.

Bob reached down and scooped up the kitten, yelping as it displayed its displeasure at being unable to reach freedom by clawing his hand.

"Oh, give it to me, you big baby," Meri exclaimed. Cuddling the suddenly docile animal, she murmured, "Did the big man hurt you?"

"Me hurt it? I'm the one bloody." Bob held out his hand for inspection. "That cat simply doesn't like to be made to mind."

Closing the door tightly, Hal chuckled. "Then it's fitting that it belongs to Sevilodorf."

"It certainly is," Bob agreed. "I've never seen a creature get into more trouble in one day."

"Speaking of trouble, are Sev and Erin back yet?"

"No, I was just about to ride out to meet them."

"Good idea," said the ranger captain. Hal reached out a hand and stroked the kitten's head. "Did you pick a name yet?"

Meri looked up with a small frown. "No. Tom just doesn't fit."

"I still say it should be named Chaff," said Bob.

Hal had a very good idea why Bob had selected that particular name; and though the temptation to tease Sevilodorf was almost overwhelming, he shook his head.

"Hmmm, and how long would you expect to live after Sev hears that choice?"

"There is that to consider. How about Trouble?"

"Or Tac?" piped Meri.

"Tac?" Bob said, bewilderment on his rugged face. "Is that a hobbit name?"

"Rohirrim, I think," said Hal, raising a questioning eyebrow at Meri who giggled.

"Yes, it means cat."

Bob nodded. "I like it. Simple, to the point, and easy to holler. Which everyone will be doing soon enough." He held up his scratched hand again to emphasize his point.

At the sound of loud voices from the common room, Meri said, "Maybe that's them now." The hobbit peered through the kitchen door.

"Oh, my!" she gasped, turning suddenly. Before the ranger had time to protest, Meri shoved the kitten into Bob's hands and rushed for the main doors of the Troll exclaiming, "Oh, dear. What happened?"

The two Rangers stepped into the common room, where they joined a pair of the resident elves who were just rising from their seats. All four stared at the mud-spattered, tousled apparition standing in the open door.

"What does it look like happened?" Sev retorted sharply then held up her hand in apology. Frowning at the mud splattered on the porch by her action, she said, "If you will excuse me, I will let Erin tell the story, and take myself off to the bath house by the hot pool. I wouldn't want to track up the floors." She glanced towards the two elves and added, "Aerio, will you and Gambesul unload the cart for me? Just stack it all down in the cellar. I'll sort it out in the morning."

"Of course, Mistress Sevi," Aerio replied with a graceful half-bow. "It would behove me to offer my assistance to the kind lady who so diligently labors to keep our humble inn provisioned with all the -."

His elaborate acceptance speech found itself directed at her back as she turned away. Aiming a look of exasperation at the thin young man now standing on the porch behind her, Sev brushed past him, her boots squelching wetly as she stalked away into the dark.

"Better send the fellow around to the back door to get cleaned up," said Warg, as she slipped carefully through the forest of legs. "Even I won't lick that stuff off the floors."

"Come along, now!" piped a familiar hobbit voice outside. "We'll just go around, nobody here bites, no matter who they are, and I know Meri and Camellia have supper waiting for us."

But Kerwin stood as if his shoes were nailed to the floor, staring through the open doorway. His gaze was locked on the strikingly handsome faces of two beings who stared back at him with ancient, wise and shining eyes and, if the truth were known, the beginnings of two matching smirks.

"Elves …" he breathed.

"No, bath!" insisted Erin, and reached to his hips where she grabbed double fistfuls of his coat and turned him bodily about. "You smell funny and you're dripping. Move your feet, now, that's good. Walk-walk-walk."

The hobbit propelled the young man away, their footsteps receding down the porch and steps. Aerio then exchanged glances with Gambesul and both shrugged and headed towards the door.

"No idea who that was," Aerio said, "But I take it Sev does not want him unloading her cart."

Moments later the door of the Troll's back hallway banged open to a renewed clatter of feet and voices.

"The men's bathing room is that door," Erin said, "And I'll fetch some clean towels for you. Just throw your dirty things out in the hall when you're ready, we'll add them to tomorrow's wash."

"Yes, miss," Kerwin replied.

As the hobbit scampered off, he found himself dazedly dividing his attention between the succulent aromas wafting from the kitchen, the warm lantern-light that shone from the bathing room, and a rather mysterious darkness that seemed to be … oozing … or something … into the other end of the short hallway. He blinked, for the hallway went straight through into the common room, he was certain of that, as he had seen lanterns burning and empty chairs that he very much wanted to sit down in. Yet he found himself blinking and squinting as that light was blotted out. By something that moved. And had glowing eyes.

That stared back at him from about seven feet off the floor. From a head that smoked.

"You like dark ale?" a deep voice rumbled, seeming to vibrate from the very boards beneath his feet. "We just got some. Have light ale, too, if you want."

"Ba- ba - ba-."

Kerwin found himself unable to voice the name that Sev had so casually tossed from darkest legend, and found his mind unable to grasp just what - or who - was asking him, of all things, what sort of ale he fancied. Hobbits, elves, talking wargs; perhaps he really had not been getting enough to eat lately, and it was affecting his wits. His wits, meanwhile, decided they had had enough.

Erin heard the meaty thud from the linen closet, and burst back into the hallway with her arms full of fluffy towels. She slid to a halt as she peered at the prone form now sprawled before the bathing room door.

"What happened?" she asked.

The balrog shrugged one massive, smoking shoulder. "He fell."

"Honestly!" Erin heaved a great sigh. "Well, if you would please fetch Bob or Hal, or possibly even both, I guess we should wake this one up before we toss him in the bath."

Shaking her curly head, she stepped over the thoroughly fainted youth to set the towels beside the men's tub. There never seemed to be an end to the peculiarities she found in the Big Folk.

"That was only a runty balrog," she said to herself. "Poor Kerwin - I guess he just has sensitive nerves."

xxx

_Tumladen_

Darkness fell early within the arms of Tumladen but lanterns glowed inside the largest of the huts, the canteen. This had just enough space to seat the fifteen miners and two visitors. There was nothing fancy in the room, just a solid table and sturdy wooden benches. There was nothing fancy about the food either, but it was hot and filling, flavoured strongly with salt and spices.

Darien ate slowly, and sipped frequently from his mug of water. He listened to the cheerful banter of the miners who, he had learnt, worked in three seven-hour shifts around the clock, having arranged these so they could all be together for the remaining hours each evening.

Glancing again at the people around him, Darien felt he must look like a ghost at a feast. Here Horus was not the exception, all the faces were dark. The twelve men, though scrubbed, had coal dust seemingly engrained deeply in their skin, and the three uruks were a shade of green that bordered on blackness. Even the dog seemed to notice that Darien looked different; it had readily accepted Horus, but growled threateningly whenever Darien's gaze inadvertently fell upon it. He toyed with the idea of giving it some scraps from his plate, but decided that he didn't really care that the sorry mongrel disliked him.

When the plates were empty, two of the miners rolled in a cask of ale and started to fill tankards. Four of the men and two of the uruks, however, drank only water.

"We're on the next shift," a tankard-less man explained glumly.

"I thought there were five miners to each shift. Yet six of you are not drinking." Horus remarked.

"No, six on each shift," the same man explained. "The uruks work two shifts each. You insist on it, don't you?" The miner grinned at the three big orcs.

"We do," Ukrosh responded in his rumbling voice, "More work, more money. One day we buy land, make farm, keep cattle, feed ourselves."

"Yes," agreed another man. "They deserve the extra money. They work twice the time and more than twice as hard. They've made our lives easier, and safer."

"How so?" Darien asked.

"Well for a start, they understand rock better than men do. They know when part of the mine is becoming unstable. And they also make the few troublesome orcs that still hang around this area think twice about trying to raid us."

"We do," Ukrosh stated again, then grinned. "We scare those puny goblins."

"They saved my life," another man added. "There's sapphires somewhere in Tumladen, so I've been told. I used to go looking in my spare time. One day when I was out on my own, a small band of orcs attacked me. Then these three giants showed up and waded in. I thought I was going to be ripped apart by rival orcs, but the uruks saw off the attackers, then picked me up, dusted me off and dressed my wounds. I couldn't walk, so they carried me back here."

"Aye, an' that were a real shock to the rest of us," a balding man added. "Seeing a big uruk approaching with an injured man in his arms; the other two didn't show up until after Ukrosh had cleared it with us. We were wary, but our dog, Bouncer …" The sandy mongrel looked up and wagged his jaunty tail at the mention of his name. "… didn't so much as raise a hackle. He trotted right up to Ukrosh as if he'd known him for years."

Darien suppressed a groan. They apparently regarded the cur as a good judge of character; that it accepted uruk-hai more readily than it tolerated himself, he found somewhat galling. Well, the feeling was mutual, so Darien determined not to let the continued snarls bother him. He concentrated instead upon finding out as much as possible about the good working relationship established here between men and uruk-hai. There seemed to be genuine respect and liking in both directions.

Once a week, four of the miners took the coal to the river and sailed down to Pelargir where they spent the night enjoying the city's entertainments. The next day, they would travel back with fresh provisions. Though the men took turns at this pleasurable diversion, the uruks had no part in it, knowing they would be shunned at best or, more likely, attacked if they were to venture into such territory. Instead they worked hard and saved their earnings for the day when they could fulfil their dream of being landholders.

"So you hope the time will come when you will be able to buy land from the king?" Darien was struggling with the idea of uruk-hai farmers.

"Yes … Why you ask these things?" Ukrosh's voice carried sudden suspicion.

Darien briefly explained about trying to win rights for orcs.

"All orcs?" Ukrosh still sounded wary.

The answer came quietly from Horus. "Those orcs, like yourselves, who wish to live in peace."

"Good," the uruk concluded. "We do wish so. We want to … become people. I want farm. I like animals, they like Ukrosh."

Then the massive uruk gazed down at Bouncer, talking to the dog in the guttural tongue of orcs. He cast his alarming smile towards Darien, and spoke a few more indecipherable words.

Bouncer barked a sharp answer, spun around to look at Darien, and wagged his tail a couple of times. Whatever Ukrosh had said, it seemed to establish a truce between man and dog. For the rest of the evening, not a single snarl was heard.

xxx

_29th February_

The next day, after a passable breakfast and a hearty leave-taking, Darien and Horus set out on the long journey back to The Burping Troll. They travelled in their usual comfortable silence, but whenever Darien chanced to glance at his companion, he noticed a smile playing around Horus' mouth.

"Whatever the joke is, I wish you would share it."

"You won't like it."

"I like even less being kept in the dark."

Horus grinned broadly, a rare sight. His black eyes sparkled, reflecting the sunlight rather than his inner mirth. There was no way to read the man aside from what he did or said.

"I understand a little of the black speech. When Ukrosh spoke to the dog, he told it that you were a good man, despite being overly posh and pasty-faced."

xxx

TBC ...


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_1st March  
__Northern Ithilien_

Allowing the kitten to capture the piece of string she had been dangling for it, Sevilodorf turned to brush away the remains of the day-old biscuit taken from the kitchen for a hasty breakfast. Undoubtedly, she would receive a scolding from Meri and the other hobbits about such behavior, but it would certainly be milder than the one she would have received for rattling pots and pans about at this hour.

Even Sev, a notoriously early riser, was forced to admit that this was an unreasonable hour to be awake. Beyond the windows, the sky was still black as pitch. However, if she didn't get a start on that mountain of reports, she wouldn't make much headway before it was time to leave for the five-mile trip north to the trading glen. The first shipment of goods bought with the profits from the trade of stones to Etharon, the lapidary of Henneth Annûn, arrived at the Troll yesterday; and she had sent word to Gubbitch and his lads that she would be there by noon.

Chewing her lower lip, Sev's thoughts turned to the puzzling news that had arrived with the shipment. First, of course, the shipment itself should have been organized and ready for her to collect on the twenty-seventh, but then it had mysteriously gone missing. Old Rabelon told a peculiar tale of the items being discovered in a seldom-used shed of the delivery company. He had also conveyed the interesting tidbit that Alfgard had sent a pair of the older lads and a driver back to Rohan. Something about getting involved with the wrong crowd.

For a moment a thought niggled on the edges of her mind, someone else had been talking about the wrong crowd or…nmad, she couldn't remember, and she didn't have time to think on it. She had to do something with all those reports.

Darien's expedition to the tiny village of Deerham had yielded far more than anyone had expected. Gethrod, the captain of the Guard, had included Darien's name in his dispatches of the events and asked that other captains do the same. And they had. On the last day of February, instead of the usual handful of reports, the messenger had staggered in with a sack full. It seemed that every guard station between Deerham and Northern Ithilien, as well as the Rangers and soldiers of Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith, had dug out every incidence involving orcs for the last two years and sent these on with some urgency. When word spread further afield, the sack full might turn into an avalanche.

Overwhelmed, Halbarad had requested Sevilodorf's assistance, and she could find no way to refuse. The vacancies left by Anoriath and Elros' departures left the remaining three Burping Troll rangers hard pressed to keep up with the necessary perimeter runs and their own paperwork. It would not be fair to expect them to take on the additional burden of reading and sorting the information relating to Darien's quest for orc rights.

Thus she sat in the silent common room in the cold hours before dawn, with four piles of reports arranged in somewhat chronological order. Thankfully, Halbarad had done that. He had also promised to assist whenever he could spare some time, as had Elanna. Sev gave a small smile as she recalled Bob, after receiving a poke in the ribs from his sister, offering to take on additional perimeter checks to free Elanna and Halbarad, but confessing that paperwork made him nervous.

"Well, it's bound to give me a headache," she murmured with a sigh and began reading.

xxx

The kitten purred softly in her lap, its belly full of the third breakfast it had taken from her neglected plate, when several hours later she pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her shoulders to relieve the knot that had formed there. Daylight shone beyond the windows now and from the kitchen wafted the aroma of something baking. The four piles were now spread into twelve across the two tables she had shoved together, and there remained yet a handful of reports she had no idea where to put, as well as the two stacks that neither she nor Halbarad had even touched. She had however come to the conclusion that she needed several lessons in the geography of Gondor. Where exactly was the village of Tarlang? And how far from Minas Tirith was Erelas?

Closing her eyes and rubbing her neck, she sighed. Her people were not known for their scholarship. Her own abilities were sadly lacking, though she did well enough with numbers and figures. Save for some rather pathetic attempts at poetry and the making of lists, she had little experience beyond the keeping of household accounts to draw upon. The basics her father, who once aspired to serve as a scribe in the court of King Thengel, had drilled into her head were little used until moving to the Troll. She had even resorted to seeking help from the elves when drafting responses to the letters Anardil wrote to her.

Reaching out, Sev lifted her mug to her lips only to shudder at the taste of the cold tea. She remembered waving off the hobbits' repeated offers of hot food, but thought it had only been a brief time since she accepted a fresh cup of tea from Camellia.

"Mis- mistress Sevilodorf."

She started at Kerwin's voice so close to her side and tea splashed onto the closest report. Resignedly, she set the cup down and rubbed at the paper.

Beside her the youth's wide brown eyes instantly blinked to chagrin. "Oh - I didn't - I never mean to do that - I - I'm sorry."

Before he could launch into a more fulsome apology, Sev held up a hand to stop him. "It is not your fault. It's mine." Trying to soften her tone, she added, "Not enough sleep."

"Ah. Yes. I understand." His brilliant smile as ever flashed and was gone. "Rather like my - ah, incident with the mop bucket the other morning."

"Yes, something like that."

Sev briefly returned his smile then frowned as she switched her gaze to her paperwork. He truly was a strikingly comely lad, if he would simply learn to stand up straight and quit looking like a whipped puppy.

Despite the fact that Kerwin had a natural talent for accidents, he had proven in the last two days that Sev's decision to employ him was not a mistake. The speed at which he had learnt to do the ledgers for the Troll impressed her. The young man even managed to reconcile the hobbits' esoteric scribbles with Celebsul's beautifully scribed but often incomplete entries. Another factor in his favour was that, after the initial episode with the balrog, he seemed to accept the more exotic customers and residents with surprising aplomb, going so far as to spending last evening in a lengthy conversation with Hooknose, Gubbitch's second in command.

"Master Aerio says that you are, ah, going to meet with the orcs today." Kerwin glanced toward the elf in the overstuffed chair by the hearth, lounging with one long leg over the chair arm, a book in his hand and Warg snoring at his feet.

"Yes, I plan to. I honestly don't seem to be making much headway here."

Kerwin nodded. He had watched the Rohirrim woman's perusal of the reports for the past hour and finally gotten up the courage to offer a suggestion.

"What you must do first is to - to establish the summation of all relevant parameters of the situation so that one might organize the information in a more categorical manner with cross-referencing of related paradigms."

That was perhaps the longest, most convoluted, unintelligible sentence he had ever uttered, and Sev shook her head. She would have to forgive him for that; after all he had been sitting with Aerio only moments before.

"Excuse me, but my lack of sleep…" She stopped as Aerio appeared as if by magic at her other side.

The elf's long hair fell over one shoulder as he leaned to scrutinize the heaps of documents. "Yes, I agree. There might even be incidences when some deposition would need to be copied several times as it contains information applicable to various aspects of the case."

As her mind calculated twelve stacks of intelligence against the thought of them multiplying, Sev repeated faintly, "Several times?"

Over her head, Aerio and Kerwin exchanged looks of long suffering patience and gave identical sighs.

"Yes, Mistress Sevi," the elf said. "Multiple copies would aid in the creation of files fitting the assorted parameters."

"They would?" Sev asked.

"Of course. That is an excellent suggestion." Kerwin nodded in agreement.

"It is?"

"Oh, yes." Kerwin went on as if she had not spoken, his dark eyes suddenly agleam. "And I would be most happy to assist you in creating the copies, Mistress Sevilodorf."

"You would?"

Speaking directly to Aerio, Kerwin said, "What do you think of the idea of utilizing several colors of ink to color code the copies?"

Suddenly Sev realized that his habitual stammer seemed to have vanished, but before she could muster a thought, Aerio replied.

"A unique solution. What shades would be most readily available?"

"Black, of course, red is not difficult to obtain." Kerwin tapped a finger on his chin." There is also a certain shade of green that can be easily created."

Aerio tapped his finger on one of the piles. "I believe that Master Celebsul has a variety of pigments in the workshop that -."

"Excuse me, gentlemen…" Sev said rather loudly. "Do you mean to say that the two of you would like to undertake this task?"

"Why yes, had we not made that obvious?" Aerio looked down at the woman with a patient expression. "If you would not mind, that is?"

She laughed, "Mind?" Lifting the kitten from her lap, she stood and waved at the table, "It's all yours, good sirs. I'll just take Warg and go trading with the orcs."

Aerio frowned at her most sternly until she added with a sigh, "I'll see if Gambesul or Celebsul would like to go along, as well."

xxx

_2nd March  
__A Glade North of Osgiliath_

Cullen found it hard to hide his anger and disgust. He had ridden for the entire day, as directed by Margul, to deliver two large sack-fulls of various provisions to a secluded glade some miles short of Osgiliath. Here he was told he would meet with Minna, a young woman. The provisions were for her and the folk she looked after.

They were good provisions, Cullen knew, as he was the one who had bought them in Henneth Annûn with the aid of a list and coins, both supplied by Margul. The man also suggested that Cullen and Minna would have to camp out in the glade before heading off in different directions the next day. So, during his journey, the youth had speculated at length on spending the night, under the stars, in the company of a strange young woman.

Strange young woman!

Minna certainly lived up to that description. Short, nay squat, her brown hair was slick with grease, and where it did not cling to her face it hung in lank, matted threads. Her nose was broad and upturned, reminding Cullen of the pigs on his father's farm. The girl's sallow cheeks were rouged with obvious circles of some outlandish red substance, which she had also smeared unevenly upon her lips. He could smell her almost as soon as he saw and heard her, the odour of someone who had not bathed in weeks competing with a powerful, floral scent of overwhelming and nauseous sweetness.

But her voice! She had greeted him from a great distance with a shout that would have graced a cave troll. "THERE YER BE! GET YERSELF OVER 'ERE, LOVEY!"

Now he sat across a campfire from her, while she alternated between picking at a chicken leg and a spot on her snout. She grinned suddenly, white strings of meat woven between yellow teeth.

"Yer a good lookin' lad. Get yerself close to me and we'll have a cuddle. Be a shame ter waste the night."

Cullen had many times imagined his first intimate encounter with a girl, or even a woman. Sira appeared in some dreams, and Pansy, and … well just about every non-grey-haired woman in Henneth Annûn, but never, EVER, had he thought of such a match as this. He shuddered, searching for words to turn down that which he had hoped for all day long.

The girl inched around the fire till she was close to him. Her pale, brown eyes looked up into his with lust, which he fancied was the same look she would give a platter of suckling pig.

"Yer pretty. Gi' me a kiss."

"Who - who -." Cullen sounded like a barn owl. "Who are the 'folks' you look after?"

"Aw, just folks." She leered so that he could see several generations of past meals wedged between her teeth. "Nobody as fine as you."

xxx

Darien and Horus had eschewed the expensive hostelries of Minas Tirith, riding on past Osgiliath even as night fell. Thus The Burping Troll would be in easy reach the next day. The pair now sought for a likely place to make camp, their horses walking slowly as Horus' black eyes scanned the sides of the road. Darien's night vision was less acute, so, despite a bright moon, he relied upon his companion to spot suitable openings within the dense forest.

Suddenly a racket sounded out from those dark trees, an unseen body snapping branches and smashing through the carpet of old leaves and twigs. Both men instantly drew swords and prepared to meet whatever was rushing towards them. A figure burst out into the road and almost charged into Darien's horse before looking up and skidding to an abrupt halt.

Suddenly with both hands full of sword and startled horse, Darien peered down at the dishevelled youth, beside him. To his shock he realized he knew the visibly-terrified lad now gasping for breath and staring wildly about.

"Cullen!"

Hearing his name, the lad seemed to come to his senses somewhat. "Darien?"

"Aye. What ails you?" Darien's quick glance saw nothing in the dark wood, though he noted Horus remained tautly vigilant. "Is there an enemy on your heels? Do you need help?"

Still puffing raw gulps of air, Cullen glanced back into the trees. "I think she … I think they have gone."

Horus nudged his horse several paces closer to the shadowy wood as Darien asked, "What on earth possessed you to be out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?"

"An errand. I have a camp in a glade back there." Cullen's thumb indicated the direction. "But two cut-throats set upon me. You must have scared them off."

"A camp," Horus mused, sliding his sword back in its sheath. "That would save us some effort, cut-throats or no. Darien, may I have a quiet word before we escort this lad back to his belongings, if any remain?"

Darien nodded, putting his own blade to rest. Satisfied that he had at least the comfort of companions now, Cullen merely glanced at the forest again. The mention of belongings reminded him that he had abandoned Margul's gift horse in his bid to outrun Minna.

The men rode a little distance from the youth then Horus leant over to whisper to Darien. "Did you catch the word 'she' in the lad's account?" He smiled wickedly, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight. "And there is something I discern as red smeared on his face and tunic. I'll warrant it is not blood. I think Cullen may have fled the wiles of some woman rather than villains."

That was not a visual he was prepared for, let alone the thought of what woman could frighten a young man away, and Darien laughed quietly but deeply, his chest shuddering in mirth. When he regained control, the men dismounted and returned to Cullen, bidding him to lead the way to the camp.

"See?" Cullen said. "I think sh- they've gone. They must have heard you coming."

The glade opened up before them, the shadowy trunks of trees dimly lit by a smouldering campfire. Tied to a low branch, a handsome steed turned its head, eyes glinting firelight as it nickered a relieved-sounding welcome to the two new horses. Unbeknownst to his new comrades, Cullen silently thanked any and all possible spirits that Minna's donkey was gone, and she with it. He gladly sat himself down and rekindled the fire while Horus and Darien unsaddled their mounts.

Soon another meal was cooking over bright flames. Now Darien could see the red smears on Cullen's mouth and neck.

"Your tunic laces have been ripped," he observed mildly. "Must have been when you fled through the trees."

"Yes!" the lad said hastily before looking down.

The imprint of Minna's painted lips was clearly visible on his pale, exposed chest. He set to tying up his broken laces before surreptitiously running the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he looked at that hand and rapidly rubbed the evidence off onto his new britches.

His own face schooled to impassiveness, Darien studiously avoided Horus' glances. He dare not read the humour that he knew was written there.

"That is an excellent horse, Cullen. Who loaned it to you?"

"It is mine." The youth's embarrassment was instantly vanquished by his pride. "I now work for a man of wealth and standing. It is only right that I have the proper tools for the task."

Horus leant back on his elbow, dark eyes glinting with irony. "Did this man of wealth and standing bid you come here where you could be assailed by cut-throats?"

Cullen opened his mouth to give an instant rebuttal, but then the question filtered fully into his brain. Bringing his abused lips back together, the youth wondered how well Margul knew his minion, Minna … and her appetites!

"See here," he said quickly. "The meat is done. You should eat so we may rest and get an early start in the morning."

xxx

_3rd March_

Cullen said little on the ride to Henneth Annûn. Darien and Horus insisted on seeing him safely back to the village, and he should have been listening intently to the occasional exchanges between the men. However, his thoughts kept slipping back to the humiliating, nauseating encounter with Minna. Somehow it had never occurred to him that any woman who sought his arms could be anything less than beautiful. He would need to ask his master more about the girl.

This reminded him again to make mental notes about the two riding alongside him. If Margul was so interested in Sevilodorf because of her connection with orcs, he would also want to know everything that could be gleaned about Darien. Cullen recalled telling his master about the orc-hunter turned orc-defender who had enlisted his father, Tiroc, as an ally.

For a moment the youth puzzled on Margul's thirst for such knowledge, and on his insistence that this be kept secret. Cullen knew that his master had little liking for the idea of orc rights, but it eluded him how secrecy could serve to oppose that cause. Surely better to be open and frank, and tell the fools how misguided they were? That was certainly what Cullen intended, but not at this moment. He had no wish to antagonise the men accompanying him, not until he was safely back on home ground.

On reaching Henneth Annûn, Darien and Horus took their leave of Cullen.

"We'll not be here long," Darien said, "as we hope to be dining on hobbit fare at The Burping Troll ere long. But I am pleased we were able to aid you in your …difficulty, last night."

The lad's thin smile did not disguise the irritation that still rankled in his mind. "Yes, of course," he replied.

Then he rode off with some haste and no thanks to the men who had gone out of their way to ensure he did not fall again into the clutches of 'cut-throats'.

Within half-an-hour, Cullen was seated before his master, recounting the little that he had overheard from Darien and Horus.

A silver glint washed the green from Margul's eyes and a smile lifted the corners of his thin lips. "So, the evidence-collector is back in the region; what a pity that he is not staying in the village. I've seen that Rohirrim woman is here again. She and he would surely wish to compare notes. I suggest you go and keep an eye on her, and try to discover her plans."

Cullen stood up in instant obedience, but then he paused and frowned. "Why didn't you warn me about Minna?"

Widening his eyes, Margul responded, "Warn? About what?"

"About her being …" The youth realised that there were no words to express his concern, not without sounding feeble.

Margul's earlier smile turned into sly grin. "Ah, she found you attractive, did she? I trust you had an … enjoyable evening."

"NO!" The word issued unbidden from the lad's mouth. "Er, I mean, she isn't my type. But she was very insistent, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings."

"Not your type? Mm, well I'm surprised she found you her type. You missed a chance there, Cullen. She could have taught you many things … never mind. Off you go." The silver-green gaze flicked away as Margul waved a pale hand, thus dismissing the youth.

Seething all over again from anger and embarrassment, Cullen made his way around the busy streets in search of Sevilodorf. Sometimes, it seemed, Margul regarded him as a young fool. He determined to prove that opinion mistaken. As he walked, he began to wonder how his master knew that Minna _' could have taught you many things_'. And then he pondered on what Sira would make of such a statement. He decided to keep the information for an opportune moment, should one ever arise.

Eventually, Cullen arrived at The Whistling Dog. The inn teemed with customers. Market day, the youth recalled, as he struggled to get to the bar and buy a drink. Every clod-footed farmer and ham-handed labourer for miles was here, along with their blowsy wives, and it seemed every blessed one of them was determined to get in his way. He wove a tedious path between groups of strangers, all of whom seemed incapable of talking without wild gestures. Fearing to have his drink dashed at any step, Cullen supped deeply from his tankard as he pursued his quest to find the Rohirrim woman. The press of bodies and babble of voices eroded his mood to intense irritation, and he gritted his teeth while elbowing people out of the way.

He finally caught sight of Sevilodorf and her companions seated at a table by the hearth, and what he saw wiped away all unpleasant emotions. Slipping as quickly as he could towards the kitchen, Cullen briefly questioned a bad-tempered Sira, and she confirmed with distaste what his observations suggested. He threw the remains of his ale into his throat and then ran all the way back to Margul's house to breathlessly report the news.

At last a smile of approval and a pat on the arm. His master further rewarded him with warm words and a handful of coins.

"Well done, Cullen." Strange how the man's eyes made him think of pond ice, even when Margul was smiling. "Now I want you to return there and keep an eye on things. Make no mention of me, be sure of that, but then I know I can trust your discretion, don't I?" Margul's sidelong glance suggested a silent warning, before he continued, "I'd go there myself. Unfortunately, I have to take a short trip out of town to meet someone. I'll be gone for an hour or two, so I'm relying on you to be my ears and eyes."

xxx

TBC ...


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

_3rd March _

Henneth Annûn 

The common room of The Whistling Dog fairly bubbled with humanity, for this was Market Day. Folk came from all around to buy and sell, barter and trade, and learn all the gossip and news of the day. The air was redolent with rich odors of cooking and the babble of voices, and laughter burst out often, as rosy cheeks grew rosier over tankards of ale. At a table near the great hearth, however, four of the patrons chose to deport themselves a little more sedately.

"How do you do it, Erin?" Sevilodorf asked.

"Do what?" Erin replied innocently, as she accepted a fourth helping of chicken and dumplings from the smiling barmaid, Pansy.

A quick grin flashed across Horus' dark face as the Rohirrim trader rolled her eyes, then refused Pansy's offer of another helping. Politely declining a further serving himself, the Haradrim sipped slowly at the herbal tea he preferred to Gondor's strange-tasting ales and wines. Theirs had been a most fortuitous meeting this afternoon on the streets of Henneth Annûn. A loose shoe on Darien's mount had forced them to stop at the farrier in the village, and it had been happy fate that brought the hobbit lass and the woman walking by at that moment.

The latter two had arrived in the village for market day several hours earlier and were completing the remainder of their errands. Discovering that they were to spend the night in the village and return north to the Troll the following day, Darien had adjusted his plans so he and Horus might accompany the women on the road.

"Never mind," Sevilodorf said to the hobbit with a laugh and turned back to Darien. "Yes, you are creating quite a stir somewhere, sir. The last messenger declared that he was going to begin using a pack mule to carry all the dispatches."

A faint smile creased the corners of Darien's eyes. "Though I regret any burden this has created for those at the Troll, especially Halbarad and yourself, I must admit that I'm happy to hear it. I had visions of traveling from town to town for years gathering the needed information."

Sev gave a rueful laugh. "After my experience with sorting that first set of messages, I realized the enormity of the task we have taken on. Gondor is a vast land."

Darien acknowledged the faint emphasis she had placed on the word 'we' with a short nod.

"And if you were forced to rely further upon my help in sorting and arranging all those messages, it would take even longer than you envisioned. Thank Eru for Aerio and Kerwin."

Erin giggled. "Sev was so happy to escape the other day she even let Kerwin hitch up the cart."

"An event that is not likely to happen again," Sev said emphatically. "I paid dearly for that momentary lapse of intelligence. He not only managed to tangle the harness, but broke one of the trace chains as well. How one snaps an iron chain I do not want to know."

"But Mistress, 'twas fortune that guided the events," Horus responded, the accent of his homeland turning the words into a rippling stream. "For that was the errand that brought you to the farrier at the appropriate moment to meet with us."

"I suppose you are right," replied Sev. "Yet, I am still grateful that Kerwin did not ask to accompany us on this trip. Things have gone much smoother today without him."

"He can't help it that he's accident prone," Erin chided.

"You didn't say that the other day, when he spilled that bottle of red ink into your laundry tub. Bob is never going to forgive him, either. Those were two brand new shirts."

"Celebsul insisted the dye would fade with repeated washings."

"And until it does, we all get to wear pink," Sev said sardonically, pointing at the edge of a pale pink petticoat peeking from beneath the hobbit's dark blue skirt.

"You mentioned that you met the young man here?" Darien could not recall seeing such a character on his previous visits to the village.

"Yes," Sev explained shortly. "He 'rescued' us from some drunks who didn't much like that I trade with orcs."

Darien exchanged glances with Horus. The possibility of repercussions to their quest had been discussed thoroughly during the long miles.

"Have you had any other problems of that sort?"

"No more than usual." Sev shrugged, and gave Erin a pointed look that caused the hobbit lass to close her mouth with a snap.

Sev did not wish to add Darien to the list of well-meaning, but very annoying people she had to consult before she went about her business. So the silent appearance of a figure clad in green and gray and wearing the gold star of a Ranger captain was a welcome diversion.

"Hello, Sevilodorf, Erin."

"Tarannon." Genuine pleasure coloured Sev's voice as she looked up to greet the captain. "Can we help you?"

Erin simply grinned and waited for the Ranger's reply.

"I hope so. Though it was Darien to whom I've been asked to convey a request." Tarannon nodded to the man. Their paths had crossed briefly when Darien had been escorted from Henneth Annûn to Emyn Arnen to see Faramir.

After introducing Horus, Darien said, "I will be glad to assist in any way I can."

So, with a wry grin, the Ranger explained, "We mentioned to the messenger that you were in town, and he virtually begged me to ask if you could accept delivery here of the latest batch of reports; save him having to haul them all over to The Burping Troll."

As Darien turned to consult Horus, Sev quipped, "By the way, Tarannon, had any more problems with howling orcs?"

The Ranger's amusement went no further than a slight quirk of his lips. "No, lady, none since your last visit."

Bristling slightly, Sev protested, "Surely, you aren't blaming me for that? I had nothing to do with it. Corbat is employed by Drath and was merely following his orders."

With the merest flicker of distaste, Tarannon nodded. "The matter was investigated. Though if one would ask my opinion, I'd say that none of the beasts should be allowed to live."

Returning the solemn look the Ranger captain gave him, Darien observed coolly, "Yet, you do not run the creature off, or kill it on sight, as some would do."

Tarannon's reply was just as unruffled. "I do not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my orders."

"And what are your orders?"

"To keep the peace." The captain clasped his hands in the small of his back. "As long as the creatures do not break that peace, I will not interfere. It is a matter for the town-folk to decide who or what they allow within their borders. And Farmer Tiroc has been most persuasive of late. I am to understand that is your doing."

"Tiroc's actions are his own choice. I will accept help, if a man offers, but I do not coerce anyone to believe differently than they will."

"True enough." Tarannon agreed. "Tiroc used an orc as a farm hand for months before you arrived in the area. Until it was killed, that is."

In answer to the implied criticism, Horus spoke quietly, "There is no law against it."

A flush of colour rose to the Ranger's neck as he realised his words had been turned against him. Erin's head bobbed as she looked worriedly, first at the Captain's set expression, then at Darien's whiter than usual face, and finally to the inscrutable Haradrim.

Seeking to break the tension, Sev said, "Lord Darien, there's plenty of room in my cart for the dispatches. We could pick them up in the morning on the way out of town, and save that poor messenger from the ignobility of a pack mule."

Responding to the subtle reminder of his position, Darien forced himself to reply graciously, "If the good captain is agreeable."

Giving a thin smile, Tarannon dipped his chin in assent. "Of course. I will see to it that you are expected. Ladies, gentlemen, if you will excuse me."

Taking swift advantage of his own exit cue, the captain moved away to join a group of local merchants at another table.

"Well, that certainly went well," Sev said blowing out a long breath and glancing at Erin. "I guess we are no longer on his list of favorite people."

"Yet," Horus' liquid voice remarked softly as Darien sighed, "the captain is a man of honor. He is willing to give even the creatures that he personally despises a chance to live. Is that not what you are seeking?"

After a moment Sev said, "You do have a unique way of looking at things, Horus. Do you happen to know any poetry?"

The Haradrim blinked once at this unexpected topic, then replied, "Yes, Mistress. Many. My people delight in the creation of verse."

"You'll have to talk to Aerio and Anardil sometime. Check on their pronunciations." Cocking her head in sudden thought, she asked, "Would you happen to know a verse that translates as, 'If truth is not whole truth, it is no more a truth; whereas there is no limit for lying'?"

With a pleased look on his face, Horus nodded. "It is a well known verse. If I might ask, how do you know it?"

"It's woven into a tapestry hanging on the wall in my room at The Burping Troll. I will show it to you when we return there tomorrow."

The man's dark features warmed in the nearest he ever came to an open smile. "I would be most interested to see it."

"Well, well, well."

If the temperature had cooled while talking to Captain Tarannon, it positively chilled when those at the table looked up to the sneering face of Farmer Tiroc's son, Cullen. Judging by the flush in the young man's cheeks and the sheen in his eyes, he was also somewhat the worse for drink. That would have been bothersome enough, but the barmaid Sira appeared behind him, a tray on her shoulder and a disdainful smile on her pretty face.

"Now they're all gathered in one place," he said, his smirk widening. "The noble killer, the Rohirrim orc-lover … and, I meant to ask earlier, what are you?" He peered at Horus. "Oh, look, Sira, a Southron. Why not? Let all the enemies of Gondor band together over chicken and dumplings. You certainly have changed flags, have you not, _Lord_ Darien?"

The ugly twist Cullen gave Darien's title elicited no response from the man himself, save a slight tightness around his eyes. "You are not yourself, son," he said quietly.

"I'm more myself than you're yourself." Cullen bent to brace his fingers on the table. "One day you can't kill enough of the creatures. The next, they're your new best friends. At least my father is consistent in his folly about orcs. I say you're a liar and a -."

Whatever else he might have said went forever unspoken, as Horus was on his feet and staring at Cullen with flat, black eyes. Yet another man moved as quick; Cameroth was suddenly between them, one meaty hand pressing Cullen back.

"That's enough from you, boy," the innkeeper growled. "I told you before, your custom is not wanted here if you can't hold your drink or mind your manners."

"Honestly, Cameroth!" Sira exclaimed, and gave a toss of her coppery tresses. "For a man who saw his own brother's head thrown over the walls of Minas Tirith during the siege, I should think -."

"Yes!" Cameroth wheeled to face her, and she flinched from the vehemence in his stare, now just inches away. "You should think. But since you don't, I'll think for you. Get back to work."

Her mouth opened twice before she decided against pushing the man's endurance any further. Giving a sniff she spun and flounced away through the crowd.

The incident had gone unremarked by most of the patrons, but Jareth and Jasimir stared implacably at Cullen from behind the bar. Catching sight of them and glancing again at Cameroth's fuming expression, Cullen decided that retreat would be his best course of action. He could watch the entrance to The Whistling Dog, and Sira would be able to inform Margul of anything that occurred inside. However, he would not leave without making his objections known.

Lifting his chin and giving Cameroth the most indignant look his young face could muster, Cullen said, "She said nothing others aren't thinking. You're not being at all fair. And I'd love to know what that brother of yours might think of all this."

The innkeeper's face flushed with anger, and a tight jerk of shoulders was indicator of just how close he came to striking Cullen. Upon that movement Jareth had to grab Jasimir by the arm before the boy could leap to assist.

In a cold, precisely measured voice, Cameroth commanded, "I said, get out of my inn. Before I throw you out."

There was real threat seething in the innkeeper's gaze then, a nearly tangible force that smote right through Cullen's fog of liquor-induced courage. Abruptly and coldly, it dawned on him that Margul was not the only dangerous man in Henneth Annûn. Without a word, Cullen forced his suddenly wobbling knees to carry him from the room, and out into the cool March night.

Behind him, Horus resumed his seat and the table of four was silent. Until, that is, Erin looked up at the innkeeper and wrapped her small hand around his fist.

In a small voice she said, "I'm sorry, Cameroth."

Looking down with a wan smile, Cameroth replied, "I'm not." To the others he added, "And I'll not take one penny for your supper tonight. You are my guests."

With that he strode back to his work, his customers and his kitchen.

Outside, Cullen managed to get across the road and into the shadows of the buildings opposite The Whistling Dog. There his heart settled back to his chest, and he began to consider what had gone wrong. Why was everyone so anxious to support the wild ravings of his father and this strange Lord Darien? First the man appears and pays him money to be led to Rablot, who he then murders. Then he returns ranting about orc rights and stirring up all sorts of trouble. And that so called trader woman. It was not difficult to imagine what she might be trading to the orcs, or to other less loathsome clients. '_Unnatural_,' he had heard her called, and now he believed it.

"It is not wise to speak out against those who have found favor with the lords of the realm."

The voice so close to his shoulder brought him fumbling for his dagger, only to hear a soft chuckle as a firm hand clamped his arm. A shadow resolved into a tall, not-quite-threatening shape, which continued, "If I had designs upon your purse or your well being, I fear it would be too late to hinder me."

"So what is your purpose in assaulting me? I have done nothing wrong; simply speak the truth to a pack of fools." Cullen's indignation at being forced to leave The Whistling Dog was increasing with each passing moment.

"Fools they may be," agreed Tarannon. "Yet, powerful fools."

"Powerful?" repeated Cullen with derision. "The flotsam and jetsam of the war, thrown together by coincidence."

He felt rather pleased with that turn of phrase but had no time to savor it before the Ranger captain squeezed his arm almost painfully.

Tarannon leaned closer as he said, "Do not be deluded by appearances, boy. Darien is Lord of Silverbrook and has spent the last two years roaming the countryside killing orcs. He is quite capable of spitting you for your brashness."

"Then why is he leading a campaign to allow the creatures to have rights? Why isn't he out killing more? There's a whole band of them near that Burping Troll, or so they say."

"'Tis true, but he has had a change of heart."

Tarannon would not relate the events of the final days of January to this boy. First, because the matter was still yet unresolved, and second, 'twas truly none of Cullen's business.

"Aye," Cullen's voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. "There are some who say that Sevilodorf practices black magic and has be-spelled the man."

For an instant Tarannon simply stared at the youth's shadowed face. Was he really so misguided?

Recovering his wits, Tarannon said, "No magic, neither white nor black. And she is connected to a very powerful and extensive family. You know how close the blood ties of the Rohirrim are. So, boy, I suggest you learn to curb your tongue."

"Everyone is so quick to tell me what to do." If Cullen was aware of the petulance twisting in his tone, he did not care. "What does it matter to you what I do, Captain?"

"Only that you are a young fool," Tarannon replied quietly. "But not an altogether bad fool, and for your father's sake, I would prefer to see you live to become an old fool. Beware the ground you tread, Cullen, son of Tiroc."

The Ranger stepped around the youth on silent feet, and by the time Cullen turned to protest or argue, Tarannon had vanished like smoke. Swallowing hard, Cullen pulled his coat closer against the sudden deepening chill of evening. Margul had better appreciate the trouble he went to, that one thought he was sure of. Soon his master would return, and upon giving Margul a final report Cullen dearly wished this long and abysmal day to be at its end.

xxx

"One of these days, you'll break your fool neck doing that."

Dropping the final few feet to the ground with a thud, Jasimir rolled over to find himself staring at Jareth's kneecaps. The bartender sat in the darkest corner of the kitchen porch on an overturned crate. As the lad scrambled to his feet, he noticed how the faint glow of a pipe lit the man's face with an eerie redness, which reminded Jasimir of blood.

"I … I …"

"You were just slipping out to …what? What mischief are you up to, Jas? Or do you have another purpose?" Jareth knocked the embers from his pipe and rose to tower over the boy. "You wouldn't be meaning to go after Cullen now, would you?"

"No, Cullen can wait," Jasimir blurted out before he thought.

"Is Sira your objective? I'd advise waiting on that one too. She's gone off to that Margul, and he's beyond your league, son."

"I'm not so stupid as that." The indignant protest came out louder than expected.

Jareth clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "No, you're not. Will you tell me, or must I insist that you go back up to bed?"

"Are you planning on mounting guard on me all night then?"

With a weary slump of the shoulders, Jareth returned to his seat. Sira's thoughtless words had awakened images that would leave him with little rest tonight; and even less, he knew, for Cameroth currently sitting in the corner of the common room with a soon to be empty bottle of brandy.

"Do as you wish, boy," he said harshly.

Jasimir turned and went a few steps into the darkness. But there he stopped and returned to face the shadowed figure on the porch.

Firmly he said, "I am going to tell those who guard Sevilodorf about what happened. I don't think Cullen is any threat, but who knows what he might be telling that Margul. They should know."

Jareth lifted his head. Observing the determined set of the lad's jaw, the same expression the bartender had often seen on Cameroth's face, he suddenly realized Jasimir was no longer a boy. Not only had he grown taller, he was taking on the responsibilities of a man, and doing a finer job of it than Cullen who was several years older.

"Yes, they should be told. Go on, then, but take care."

Jasimir smiled, "I always do."

As the youth disappeared around the corner of the stables, Jareth sighed.

xxx

The door creaked sharply, and Sevilodorf waited as the blanket wrapped figure of Erin turned fitfully in her sleep, before slipping out into the upper hallway of The Whistling Dog. Easing the door closed, she padded toward the stairs with her boots in hand. It would be hours before Erin would awaken, and they could finish the few errands yet to be done. But Sev could not stay caged inside that tiny room, listening to the gentle sounds of the hobbit's breathing. She had to get out.

Staying close to the rail in an effort to avoid creaking boards, the Rohirrim woman made her way down to the dimly-lit common room. The place was silent as an empty barn, which suited her exactly. Settling on the third step from the bottom to tug on her boots, she became aware of Cameroth's bleary-eyed scrutiny. He was seated in the corner with his arms leant on a table, light from a single candle flickered across his face while a small fire still warmed the hearth.

Giving the innkeeper a rueful shrug, she raised a finger and motioned to the bottle at his elbow. "Is it empty?"

"Almost." His words blurred around the edges, and Sev judged that he was on the verge of slipping into a drunken sleep. "Why? Are you wanting some?"

"Does it help?"

Upending the unused glass before him, he poured the final drops from the bottle.

"Doesn't hurt," he replied, sliding the glass across the table towards her.

"That's not what Bob says the morning after he's downed more than his share of Cherry B," Sev said. She stood and quietly stamped her feet to settle her boots.

Cameroth blinked slowly. "Not what I meant. The memories don't hurt."

"Oh."

A sharp popping from the fire drew the man's attention and a grimace twisted his face. In a voice heavy as stone, he said, "There are times I can still smell it."

Frozen at the foot of the stair, Sev swallowed and bit her lip to stop herself from screeching that she didn't want to hear. He needed to say it; and in a way it was her fault that he did, so she would listen.

"Never did find out what they used to make their devil fire, but it burned with a stench that left you puking your guts into the street. And water did no good. Only seemed to spread it."

He stared into the dying embers and frowned. "'Tain't natural you know. To create a fire that water cannot stop."

When she did not reply, he looked up and demanded, "Well, it isn't, is it?"

"No, it's not." She managed to get the words out despite the tightness in her throat.

"And you know what else ain't natural?" he demanded suddenly.

"What?"

"Tossing a man's head over a wall." Cameroth thumped a heavy fist onto the table, rattling the glass, bottle and candleholder.

For a moment Sev drew back, afraid that he would leap up. But his anger faded as rapidly as it had appeared, and he lifted suddenly glistening eyes.

"You like my boy, don't you?" At her nod, Cameroth said, "He's a good lad. I've got two grown daughters back in the city. Jasimir's my youngest. Didn't have no other sons." For a minute he went silent, then added, "Might have been a blessing not to, now that I think on it."

The distress on Sev's face went unnoticed, as the man returned to his contemplation of the hearth.

"Always been a good lad. Bit flighty, being the youngest. His sisters spoiled him after my wife died of a fever. But a good lad. You know, he wouldn't leave the city during the war. I put him on a wagon, but he snuck away and hid 'til they were all gone. Then he came and found me. Told me he couldn't leave me alone. That other boys were staying, so he should too. I didn't know whether to tan his backside or salute him. You know how it is?"

"Aye, I know," Sev answered softly.

Pride filled Cameroth's voice. "Made himself useful he did. Running errands. Fetching and carrying for the guards at the gates and for the healers." Then the heaviness crept back in. "Don't know how he managed to be down in the first circle during the fires, but he was. He saw it too. The head, I mean. My brother's. They'd cut off the eyelid, but you could still tell who it was. And my son saw it."

His words sank into the dark corners of the room; and for a time there was nothing but the faint hiss of the fire and two people lost in memories of grief and war. Sighing heavily, Cameroth rose unsteadily to stand with one hand resting on the table for support.

"That's why, lady, though I know you aren't the evil person that some people claim…" His words slurred from the drink, and he paused to take a deep breath. "-that's why I can't let those beasts in here. Do you understand?"

Tears ran in silver tracks down her face, but she whispered, "Yes."

"Good," Cameroth said with finality. He picked up the glass, and said, "If you don't mind, I'll drink this myself and then ask for your assistance in finding my room."

Without speaking, Sev moved towards him, knowing him at last for a good man who bore the same hidden scars of war as she did; as many did. Nor was her kindness unobserved. Horus stood, a shadow amongst shadows, at the top of the stairs. His eyes glittered like obsidian. Moving as silently as a cat, he retreated to his room.

xxx

TBC ...


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

_4th March  
__Henneth Annûn_

"Thank Eru that dairymen rise with the sun," muttered Sevilodorf, after giving Dream the signal to walk on.

She turned to briefly wave farewell to the still-yawning farmhand, who had loaded the cart with fat rounds of cheese, tubs of butter and several crocks of the hobbits' favorite, buttermilk. By stealing a march on her companions, Sev had completed her trading at the mill and the dairyman as the sun began to make its way over the eastern ridge. All that remained was a quick trip to the Ranger's headquarters to pick up the dispatches for Darien and a meeting with Etharon, the lapidary, concerning the stones being traded by Gubbitch's band of orcs. Stifling a yawn of her own, she hoped that the meeting would be a quick one. She wanted to get back home.

Then her seat jolted as Dream shied and collided with the shafts of the cart. It jolted again as the mare kicked out at a hulking shape scrambling suddenly up onto the edge of the road. With a gasp Sev jerked herself back to attention and curbed Dream sharply back in hand.

More shock than fear prompted her to cry, "Whoa, there! Have you no more brains than to jump out in front of a horse?"

"I've enough," snarled a guttural voice.

To her surprise Sev glimpsed a misshapen body and a display of teeth far sharper than generally possessed by men, before the edges of a tattered hood were drawn down to hide the creature's face. Yet he simply stood hunched and peering and made no further move as the cart began rolling once more.

Controlling the urge to fumble for the knives sheathed on her forearms, Sev said, "Forgive me. You startled the both of us."

The mare still pranced and blew nervously, so Sev spoke soothingly to Dream in Rohirric then turned again to the stranger, only to find he had vanished. The swaying of the hedgerow was the only sign that he had been more than an illusion.

Though the cart resumed its rumbling pace Dream continued to shake her head fretfully and eye the woods on the right; Sev deduced that the orc must be walking parallel to the road. Was this one of the "tame" orcs known to lurk around The Black Cauldron? She decided that she did not want to call him back to find out, for she had not recognized him, and in spite of popular belief, she did not consciously seek trouble.

Flicking the lines to return Dream's attention to her job, Sev turned south onto the lane that led toward the village. Her shadow must have continued on the main road to the west for Dream settled to her task, and it was only a matter of moments before they were rolling past the pastures of the delivery company. She had visited with Alfgard, the manager, for a short period yesterday and received all the gossip from the Deeping Vale and another of Esiwmas' periodic pleas to return "home".

No matter how many times she explained that "home" now meant the Troll, or rather more accurately, wherever Anardil decided to hang his cloak, Esiwmas insisted on issuing the politely phrased command. Thank Eru, it was still polite enough to ignore. Sev knew well enough that there would come a day when she would have to return to Rohan, for bonds of kinship were strong, but she would put it off as long as possible.

As they clip-clopped on down the lane Dream whickered a greeting to the horses in the pasture. Then she turned her head just enough to cast one dark eye back at her mistress.

"Not now, if you please," Sev responded. "If we don't make it back before breakfast, there will be trouble. Tell your friends you'll see them next time."

As Dream tossed her head and flicked her ears in acknowledgement, Sev laughed softly. Anardil was amused by her insistence that a horse could understand everything said to it, but Dream did. Whether it was the thin strain of Mearas running through her bloodlines, or simply that she and Sevilodorf had been through so much together, Dream did indeed understand. Now, that did not mean that Sev understood everything the mare said, but the important ideas were conveyed to the satisfaction of both.

Turning onto the main road of the village, Sev squinted against the rising sun. Nmad, someone would be up by this time, and she would have to listen to them scolding her. Sure enough, no sooner had she rolled into the yard of The Whistling Dog than a sturdy hobbit form topped by tousled curls popped out the door. There Erin stood with fists on her hips and an annoyed look on her face.

"Goodness, Sevi! You ran off without a single word! What's the sense in me traveling with you if I'm not with you?"

"You were asleep, Erin," Sev said, as the cart creaked to a halt. "And short of beating a drum over your head, you were not going to wake up."

Indignation instantly painted those round cheeks. "I would so! At home I get up every morning bright and early to help cook everybody breakfast."

"Yes." Sev looked down with amused tolerance. "But at home you usually don't have two Big Folk-sized glasses of hard cider after supper."

"Oh." Erin's face fell in realization, then blinked back to sunny smiles. "But Darien was right; the cider from Lamedon is excellent!"

"I'm glad to hear that. Have you had breakfast?"

"Of course! But don't you have to -."

"Hop up here and come with me to the lapidary and Ranger headquarters." Sev patted the seat beside her. "You'll be my excuse for escaping both places quickly, and I'll join you for second breakfast."

"Oh, that sounds splendid. I'll grab my coat."

The hobbit vanished, slamming the door. Three counts later she reappeared and slammed the door again. She barely had her arms in her coat sleeves before she was in the wagon seat, smiling eagerly.

"Maybe he'll give me a pretty stone, do you think? Like last time, he had that one he said was 'damaged,' though I thought it looked perfectly fine."

"He may at that," Sev replied with a small smile, and gently slapped the lines to start Dream into motion.

And she was only half-joking that a hungry hobbit would be her excuse for keeping business brief. They had done all they came to do, and she was anxious to be on the road for home. If only to see what Kerwin may have broken, stepped on, or tripped over in their absence.

xxx

Horus sipped his tea as he related the events of the night to Darien over breakfast in the common room. Now that Erin had run off on errands with the Rohirrim woman, he felt he could speak freely. Quietly, he explained a little of the conversation he had overheard between Sevilodorf and Cameroth, enough for his leader to understand the innkeeper's attitude to orcs. Darien noted the slight pull of tension around his comrade's mouth. Though it had never passed in words between them, Darien knew that Horus found memories of war painful and shaming. Like Cameroth, the dark man also remembered fire and legions of orcs and ghastly missiles flung by Mordor's war machines. However, Horus of Harad had stood on the wrong side of the White City's walls.

"There was another incident in the night." Horus changed the subject quickly and smoothly.

With a wry expression, Darien took up the bait. "You shouldn't be such a light sleeper. What was it?"

"The boy, Jasimir is it?" At his companion's nod of confirmation, Horus continued. "I heard him sneaking along the corridor. I fear I almost scared him witless." A half-smile lifted the corner of the Haradrim's face. "He asked me to confirm that we were riding back with Sevilodorf and Erin. When I did so, he seemed relieved. I asked him if there were any cause for concern. He said that he didn't think so, but that we should be careful anyway."

"Oh, we will be," Darien asserted. "Though how much trouble the likes of Cullen and Sira can stir up remains to be seen. Their popularity is such that people would be more inclined to support any cause other than theirs." Then getting to his feet, he added, "We better gather our things. It would not do to keep Sevilodorf waiting when she returns."

xxx

Despite his late night, Jasimir was up early. After finishing his chores, he went out into the village, looking. For what he was looking, he didn't know, he just had an urge to check everything was as it should be. And everything was. The shops and stores were open, and folk travelled the roads hailing each other as they went about their business, or stopping to pass the time of day or remark on how warm the weather was.

Having trudged as far as the gates of the dairyman's yard and found nothing out of the ordinary, Jasimir headed back toward the village. Scuffing his feet and kicking at small stones that littered the grassy edges, he unknowingly followed the same path that Sevilodorf had earlier. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he stooped to pry up the half-buried object. After brushing away the dirt, he turned it over in his hands.

It was some kind of badge or ornament, of poor workmanship, scratched and faded. But he could make out the emblem. A shudder ran through him. Faint yet unmistakable, the painted red eye of Sauron stared at him.

What to do? Surely no local orc would dare to wear the ancient enemy's symbol. He should ask Lorgarth. But the orc told him last night that he and Corbat planned to join Warg early this morning to watch until Sev and Erin were safely on their way. From where Jasimir stood, on the north side of the village, it was not very far to the glade; yet if there were strange orcs around, he would be a fool to go wandering off through the woods alone and unarmed. Urgency tugged at Jasimir's slightly fraying nerves. Should he risk it?

Then the sound of splintering wood spun him around. Cullen, using his fine walking stick to take his frustrations out on the defenceless foliage growing along the road, was approaching from the direction of the village. Throwing caution to the wind, Jasimir ran up to meet the young man and slid to a breathless, broadly-grinning stop.

"There you are, Cullen, I've been looking all over for you. Can I borrow your dagger?"

Cullen's mouth twisted into a sneer of disbelief at the boy's impudence. "What on earth for?"

There was no characteristic in which Jasimir was slow. "I told my friends how fine it was, but they wouldn't believe me." He pasted on his best smug grin. "I've got two coppers wagered on it, and if I win, I'll get ten in return. When they see it, they will have to accept that it is one of, if not the finest knives in the town."

A slight smirk of pride tickled the corner of Cullen's mouth, but he replied caustically, "So! Why should I care whether you win such a paltry wager or not?"

Jasimir bit down on the desire to exclaim that ten coppers was not such a paltry sum to Cullen a scant few weeks ago. Instead, he cautiously looked both ways then said in a conspiratorial tone, "If I win the bet, I'll tell you what I overheard Sevilodorf saying to that Lord Darien. It was after you left last evening. Sira doesn't know 'cause my father wouldn't let her near them."

For a moment, Cullen considered the idea. New information about Sevilodorf and the orc hunter might serve to free him from the disgrace he had fallen into when Margul had learned of Cullen's dismissal from The Whistling Dog. But then again, Cullen would be forced to explain his source, and his stomach lurched painfully at remembrance of his master's last lecture concerning Jasimir.

Adopting a scornful air, Cullen said, "I am no longer interested in that bizarre woman. She's sunk beneath contempt, you know. Not satisfied with consorting with orcs, she's added Southerners to her list. Besides, do you have any idea how much this knife cost? "

Jasimir searched his brain for any knowledge or temptation that he might possess that would convince this pompous ass. Then it dawned on him and he drew himself up in the most indignant stance a boy in a bright blue coat and yellow stockings could muster.

He said angrily, "I only want it for a half-hour or so, Cullen. Fat lot of good it did me singing your praises, if you just stand by and let me lose money for it." Adding an injured look he added, "And I'll certainly make sure Pansy knows I've changed my mind about you."

Cullen blinked. "You've been talking to Pansy about me?"

"Yes. She asked about you. Said how you seemed to have changed, and how handsome your new clothes were." Even as he slumped his shoulders in a pose of rejection, Jasimir sent out a silent apology to the pretty barmaid, but needs must. "I told her you have a respectable, well-paid job and that you are now a man of standing. We must have talked for a good hour about you."

Cullen was amazed; sweet, delectable Pansy had talked about him for an hour? His previously foul mood brightened. Margul had been edgy and ill tempered this morning, that being the main reason why the young man was out walking, keeping well out of the way. But his long stroll was well rewarded by Jasimir's news.

"An hour, you say?"

"Yes, Cullen, maybe longer. I told her what a great fellow you were, because I thought we were friends." Jasimir scuffed his toe in the dirt. "Seems I was wrong."

The young man mused on this. He would hardly regard the lad as a friend, but it gratified him that Jasimir held him in such esteem. It would be a pity to mar that and risk the boy telling Pansy untruths to spite him. His mind rapidly contrasted Pansy with Minna. Repressing a shudder, Cullen unfastened the sheath from his belt and handed it over.

"No you weren't wrong, but don't be long. And there better not be so much as a fingerprint on the blade when you return it."

Instantly Jasimir beamed a sunny smile. "There won't be, I promise! Thank you, Cullen! Just wait until the lads see this!"

Turning the handsome knife briefly in his hands, Jasimir started to walk northwards and then broke into a run. Cullen's warning drifted after him, "Don't you or your friends go cutting yourselves. It's very sharp."

xxx

At the outskirts of Henneth Annûn a small meadow drowsed amidst a little barren wood, and at its edge, hidden shadows waited. Warg lay licking her paws while two orcs sat with their backs propped against a fallen tree.

Finally Lorgarth broke the companionable silence, as he raised a claw to scratch his craggy jaw. "All seems normal out here today."

Looking up, the warg shook her head slightly. "There are some odd scents on the wind, but, as many strangers visit the village, it may portend nothing."

Lorgarth nodded sagely, while Corbat concentrated on breaking bits of twig off a dead branch, his gnarled fingers exacting in their small task of destruction. Whys and wherefores were no matter to Corbat; he simply waited for orders as to what to do next.

The lupine voice went on. "When Sev and Erin turn up, you stay well hidden. I don't want them worried unnecessarily. But make sure you keep up with us until we are well clear of the village. Once I can no longer scent the strangers, I'll give the usual signal and you can go home."

"All right," Lorgarth replied, and curled his lip to pick at his uneven teeth.

Her request was a little matter, after all, and he did not mind obliging Warg's whim. At worst he and Corbat would take a little stroll in the woods. At best … Lorgarth's lip curled further to expose a jagged grin. At best they might get a little exercise, if there really were any villains out roaming the highways. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to properly thump an enemy's skull.

Beside him Warg raised her head, listening for the familiar rumble of a trader's cart coming up the road.

xxx

"Warg, you're spooking the horse again!"

A snort and a spattering clatter of hooves in gravel punctuated Sev's exclamation. Erin squeaked as the woman halted Dream, but it was not the cart horse that was the problem.

"Is it my fault it is a witless creature unable to recognize the difference between friend and foe?"

From the roadside, Sevilodorf's four-footed escort eyed the antics of Horus' mount with disgust. Though Horus himself seemed perfectly composed, the horse he tried to balance with heels and hands was working itself into a nervous dither, blowing and prancing and fighting the bit. Warg had been waiting in the same little meadow where she had left them, but no sooner did she appear than the horse made its objections known. For the past ten minutes Warg had attempted to stay downwind, but a blustery breeze had whipped her scent straight to the foolish animal's nostrils.

"When spoken by someone whose breath reeks of pony biscuits, that seems a faintly ridiculous question," Sev said sarcastically. Then she gestured towards the front of her cart, where Dream and Darien's steed now stood nose to nose, no doubt discussing the idiotic behavior of the other horse. "These two are accustomed to you. But I think we are fighting a losing battle with that one."

A battle lost before it began, Sev might have added, for they could still see Henneth Annûn's rooftops beyond barren trees and plowed fields. The minutes since Warg joined them had been a recurring struggle between Horus and his skittish horse, which given the five-hour trek ahead of them was not an auspicious start.

"Might make a nice biscuit," remarked Warg. "Heh heh heh."

As if in response the animal reared and spun about again. Once more Horus patiently turned it back, trembling, to face her.

"It might at that," retorted the trader. "But until such time, would you please just go away? Go on back to the Troll. You can make much better time than we can, anyway."

Warg shook her massive head. "Can't. Told Lover boy I'd keep you under paw."

Blowing out an exasperated breath and giving a giggling Erin a stern look, Sev exclaimed, "If you don't stop calling him Lover boy, I'm going to cut off the supply of pony biscuits myself. Darien and Horus, while they might not have your capabilities, are more than qualified to serve as an escort."

"You've been known to run away from two legged escorts."

The two-legged escorts presently under discussion did their best to pretend they were not listening. Horus had the better job of that, as his horse abruptly decided to try scrambling backwards at top speed. Darien meanwhile became intensely interested in the ends of his reins. Somewhere across the fields an unseen farmer's dog barked, undoubtedly harkening to this absurd conversation.

Her patience fraying, Sev said, "They're going the same direction I want to go, and if we can get this animal under control we'll be able to move in that direction. But that won't happen as long as you are nearby."

"Alright already." Warg paused to yawn so that she showed every tooth in her head - whereupon Horus' horse leaped two lengths sideways. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. I'll travel further out in the woods where I'm sure to be downwind of ol' Blue Rocket, there. Will that be enough?"

"Perfect," Sev said. "Just remember these farmers don't want to see you, either."

"Oughtta bite that darn horse anyway," Warg grumbled, as she sauntered towards the roadside. Horus' steed watched her with eyes nearly popping from its head. "Just an eensy little bite … just a taste."

"Warg …."

"I'm going, I'm going. Whistle if you need me. Or something."

Tangles of roadside brush rustled as the still-grumbling warg disappeared. And then there was no further sound of her.

"I am sorry, Mistress Sevilodorf." The trader looked up to see Horus leaning to stroke his mount's sweating neck, as the animal settled to stare with its head high and blow nervous little snorts. "I did not wish to drive your friend away."

"She won't be far," Sev replied, and gave a weary sigh. "And I forget that the more normal rest-of-the-world has every reason to be terrified of wargs."

"That's true," Erin piped up with a grin. "If it were any other warg, Horus, your horse would be a whole lot smarter than these two!"

Horus did not laugh, but his teeth shone white in his dark face. With a glance at Darien he turned his now-steadier horse back onto the road.

"If it pleases you, Mistress, I will ride in front. Then if my horse becomes intelligent again, he can do so where he is not running up behind you."

"Before, behind, no matter to me." Sev made a kissing sound to start Dream walking again. "I just want to get home."

Behind a tangled thicket Warg sat down, where she cocked a hind leg to scratch behind one ear. "Guess I'll just go back and give the boys the go-ahead," she muttered. "At least they know good company when they find it."

With that she turned and slunk away, back towards her little glade. Lorgarth and Corbat would be still waiting for her signal to follow. She may as well join them in their hidden escort duties, trailing Sev and company for the next few miles.

xxx

TBC ...


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

_4th March  
__Henneth Annûn_

The ominous rustling of leaves and twigs seemed to come from all directions at once. Springing to their feet, the two orcs stood back-to-back, clutching their makeshift weapons: sturdy branches capable of breaking heads. Closer the crackling came, and closer -.

Jasimir popped from the trees almost face-to-face with the menacing figure of Lorgarth and a poised club. "Whoa!" he cried and Corbat leaped straight in the air, ugly head twisting from the boy to the sounds still coming from the other side.

An instant later, Warg stepped out from the bushes opposite. She cocked her head on one side as she took in the almost comic scene.

"Glad to see you two are so alert. Jasimir, what are you doing here?"

"I've come to ask Lorgarth about this." Ignoring the slight tremble in his knees at still being the object of the orcs' concentrated stares, the lad held out the badge.

Putting his branch down, Lorgarth took the proffered object and examined it closely. Meanwhile Corbat peered at the glittering hilt at Jasimir's waist.

"What's that?" The orc pointed with a thick talon.

"Oh, it's Cullen's dagger. I borrowed it."

"Can I look at it?" Corbat asked, eyes widening absurdly in his scarred and malformed face. He could not remember ever seeing something so shiny before. All the knives he had ever owned had been notched and dull from years of use.

Uncertain whether he truly wanted to give the orc a weapon or not, Jasimir hesitated. Then he shrugged and extracted the knife to pass it over. If Corbat was going to kill him, he could do it as easily without the knife as with it. Somewhere he had to make a decision on who to trust, and though he knew his father would think he had gone mad, Jasimir trusted the misshapen creature before him.

"Just be careful not to mark it, or Cullen will have a fit."

Turning his attention to Lorgarth, the lad asked, "What do you make of the badge? Could it belong to a local orc, or one of those who visits The Black Cauldron?"

The frown on the big orc's face could have curdled milk. His dark lips twisted into nearly a snarl, as he replied, "No. No local orc would wear such. No orc of any sense would carry this device; only the rabble without brains to realise how pointless it is."

"I don't wear one," Corbat remarked vacantly as he turned the beautiful weapon over and over in his gnarled fingers. "Yer made me throw it away."

Warg sniffed several times, walking closer to Lorgarth. "Let me smell the badge."

As the orc held the object out to her, she inhaled deeply. Then, without a word, she set off loping around the glade, head held up, mouth open, tasting the air. The orcs and the youth looked on nonplussed as the warg paused from time-to-time, sweeping her muzzle from one direction to another and then back again, seemingly homing in on a direction. Finally she faced northwards and her hackles started to rise alarmingly. Her nostrils twitched as Warg visibly grew in size. Abruptly she turned to face the others with white showing around her eyes.

"MOVE! GRAB YOUR WEAPONS AND FOLLOW ME!"

Then she was gone in a storm of fur and fury.

xxx

They were progressing much more swiftly, now that Horus' roan gelding had lost scent of the warg and seemed content to lead the way. Darien rode in the rear. In between, Sev drove the cart while smiling at the cheerful chatter of the hobbit by her side. The road towards home at last under her hooves, Dream pulled steadily in the traces, one ear after the other flicking sideways as if she too listened to Erin's words.

"When we get home, I'm going to ask Horus to teach me how to cook a Haradrim dish. He said some of them were very hot and spicy. Told me I wouldn't like them. Ha, me, a hobbit, not like food. I don't care how spicy it is, if Horus can eat it, so can I. He said we'd be hard put to find the ingredients. Now there's a challenge you could never refuse, Sev. You'll be able to find just the right things, or suitable substitutes."

Sev opened her mouth to reply, but her world suddenly blew asunder.

A hissing volley of black-shafted arrows descended on them, thudding into the side of the cart. Sev glimpsed Darien drawing his sword as she heaved Erin bodily toward the rear of the cart.

"Get under shelter! Find something solid to hide beneath!"

"But -" Erin began to protest.

Then a jarring jolt sent her tumbling backwards as Dream lunged forward with a throat-tearing scream. Sev spun her attention back to the reins as the cart lumbered towards the edge of the road, but Dream was beyond all response. Deeply embedded in the mare's ribs, an arrow had achieved its ultimate objective of flesh.

Though Sev desperately sought to aid her, Dream was a stone weight at the end of the lines as she staggered brokenly and veered before collapsing into a shallow roadside ditch. Her toppling weight dragged the cart onto its side, and Sev catapulted painfully out onto the hard ground.

"SEVI!" rang Erin's shriek from the tumbled wreckage as more arrows flickered and thudded and a ghastly howl tore from the nearby wood.

With a sharp exclamation Sev jerked Erin from amid the shattered crocks of buttermilk and pushed her against what was once the underside of the vehicle, but now might prove a wooden shield. A moment's glance was all that Sev could spare for her faithful, fallen horse. The whites of Dream's eyes flashed as she raised her head sideway to look beseechingly towards her mistress. Sev saw the blood streaming from the mare's nostrils, but she dare do nothing except reach for her knives in an attempt to fight off whatever was attacking.

Orcs were upon them. Darien spun his horse around as he slashed at the grinning, whooping creatures; it was war again, orc hunts again. He and Horus replayed the familiar, grim dance of battle, but the odds were against them. Before he could shout a warning to the Haradrim, a sudden flash of steel swept past his vision. An orc on Horus' blind side dropped, a knife embedded in his throat. Glancing quickly to the source, he saw the Rohirrim woman readying another blade. The desire to tell her to take cover died instantly. She had the skill, the right and, most importantly, the need.

Metal flashed in a wicked arc and Horus' sword sent a hideous head spinning into the trees. Darien skewered the grinning beast that tried to spear his horse. By the up-turned cart, Sev fiercely stabbed an orc foolish enough to get close enough to try to throttle her. A thin shriek of terror and rage was Erin, somewhere in the debris as she bounced chunks of broken milk crocks off grinning orc skulls - just before Sev's hand flickered again and sunk another blade home. The Rohirrim never looked up as she lunged to retrieve her knife and Horus' sword swept over her head to fell another foe.

But they kept coming. Blood wept from man and horse alike.

An ear-ripping howl shocked all movement to a halt - then the warg struck. She was huge and terrible and her jaws ripped the unspoken yelp of amazement from an orc's throat. She cast that victim aside before leaping upon another. On her heels bounded Lorgarth, the sturdy branch he wielded cracked skulls as he waded into the melee. Then Corbat appeared, grinning and savagely laughing as he stabbed wantonly with the elegant dagger; this was his element and his heart rejoiced.

In the stink of fear, blood and sweat, Horus' gelding trusted all to his rider, obeying every flicker of command. War training insisted this was the only way to survive, despite the warg in all her horrendous glory rending enemies in her scarlet jaws. Warg seized a howling orc ere its blade could find the horse's belly, and a savage hoof cracked the orc's skull. As one, Warg and Haradrim turned to meet the enemy's attack, and beside them Lorgarth and Corbat yowled in ghastly glee.

Erin watched as the awesome form of Sevilodorf now wielded a short rusty sword snatched from the hand of a headless foe. An orc clambered up and over the fallen mare - and dropped beneath Sev's battered blade. With a gasp, the hobbit scrambled forward along Dream's back, dead leaves scattering under her hands and knees. She knew she should not be in the open, but orcs trampling Dream's injured body was more than she could bear. Biting back sobs, Erin flung a hasty glance towards Lord Darien as his horse reared and struck an orc staggering --just before Darien's sword ended its life. The hobbit seized a stout branch, determined to defend their equine friend if possible, then snuggled herself against Dream's jaw.

"Sev loves you. She'll make you better when the fighting stops " Tears started to drip unheeded off the hobbit's chin. "She's trying to save us all."

A long groaning sigh issued from the horse's mouth. Erin threw her arms about the mare's neck.

"Don't die. Please don't die, don't leave Sevi, she needs you. She _will_ make you better … when the fighting stops."

Horus kicked his horse forward as he saw an orc lurching towards the weeping hobbit. Spinning round, Sev sliced that threat into oblivion with a two handed stroke that made up in effectiveness what it lacked in elegance, so Horus swerved to find another foe.

But there were suddenly only corpses. One creature alone survived, running for its life, with Corbat cackling gleefully in pursuit.

"Catch it, don't kill it!" Darien shouted, as clear thought slammed. Why had these orcs ambushed them, why had they ambushed them here?

Lorgarth added his own mighty roar as he ran after Corbat. "DON'T KILL IT!"

Too late, Corbat's battle lust deafened his ears. He lunged upon the final enemy, slitting its throat even as both crashed to earth.

Only then did he draw himself up to look back and, with a mild smile, ask, "Did yer say summat?"

Beneath the trees, a breathless Jasimir clung to a skinny beech and bore horrified witness to the gory scene. His eyes stung and his chest seemed too tight to take in air. He had thought such sights no longer more than memory, and for an instant his stunned mind could not grasp why two orcs stalked unhindered between the heaving, sweating bodies of Darien's and Horus' horses. For that awful moment, the details of friend and foe, past and present blurred together.

It was over. Sev's hand opened and the bloody sword thudded to the ground. She felt as if she stood outside herself and watched as she walked over to Dream, dropping to her knees in front the mare's head. Reaching out her trembling fingers, she touched the soft muzzle. No breath, no light in those dark eyes. Dream was gone.

How long she knelt there with her old friend she did not know, but at some point she became aware of the hobbit's tragic sobbing. Stroking Dream's white blaze once more, she let loose a shuddering breath and climbed shakily to her feet. A firm hand was suddenly under her elbow, and she turned to see a tall roan horse and a solemn dark human face.

She began to thank Horus for his support, but as her voice threatened to crack, she clamped her jaws tight and merely nodded. A slight twisting of his lips revealed that he understood.

"Are you hurt, lady?"

Drawing two deep breaths, she regained enough composure to say, "Bruised and shaken for the most part." Trying an unsteady laugh, she added, "I'll have to bake Bob a cake when we get home."

Horus blinked at this apparently irrelevant comment.

Sev waved a suddenly unsteady hand toward the nearest body. "His tutelage proved outstanding."

Horus nodded in understanding, and then his dark eyes twinkled as he bowed slightly. "And what might I bake for you? Your accuracy in throwing the blade was most auspicious."

"Let's just call ourselves even," Sev said faintly. She swallowed convulsively at the sight of her knife protruding from the orc's throat. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I think I'm going to be sick."

She turned back moments later to face Jasimir, standing entirely too silent and solemn for a lad his age, with too much understanding in his young eyes. Far across the fields the same farmer's dog that they had heard earlier, now barked again, and Sev wondered what, if anything, the human residents had heard. How odd it seemed that nothing else in the world had changed, the same chill breeze caressing the meadows, the same morning sun slanting over the trees.

A hand touched Erin's shoulder and she lifted her soaked cheek from the mare's lifeless neck. With her eyes still swamped by tears, the face regarding her took a moment to resolve … then she gasped.

"No. Don't be afraid of me, little hobbit."

Erin looked more carefully at the gnarled, scarred features before her. Through Gubbitch and his equally unlovely lads, she had come to know orcs well. The expression that this one bore told of sorrow and compassion. She sniffed and tried to smile.

"That's better," Lorgarth said, as gently as his growling tones were able. "I'm sorry we weren't in time to save the horse. But me and Corbat, we'll make sure you all get back to town. Don't cry no more, brave little hobbit."

For an instant she simply stared into those strange, alien eyes and the unlikely kindness glimmering therein. Then Erin untangled herself from Dream's corpse, threw away the branch in her hand, and wrapped tiny fingers around the kneeling orc's paw.

"Thank you, Lorgarth," she whispered.

For the first time in his life, Lorgarth the orc attempted to return a clasp of friendship.

xxx

Acquiescing to the two orcs' claims that they were strong enough to pull the cart, Darien decided to return to Henneth Annûn as a group, rather than send Jasimir or Horus even that short distance alone to request aid. Though Warg reported the woods to be free of orcs or humans, he thought it better to err on the side of safety. Sevilodorf insisted upon cutting the harness from Dream herself, but focused her attention on bandaging the worst of Erin's cuts during the more grisly task of moving the animal so that the cart might be righted.

The Rohirrim healer then smeared their other wounds with salves retrieved from the chaos produced when the cart had overturned, and breathed a sigh of relief at finding no signs of poison. Though Corbat voiced his disappointment when Sev said a gash on his arm would barely leave a scar, the rest of the party was just relieved that, while all bore signs of battle, no one else had sustained serious injury.

Erin, still red-eyed with misery, applied the final ministration; she wrapped a bandage around Sev's rapidly swelling wrist, damage received during her fall from the cart and exacerbated by the wielding of a heavy sword.

"Remember not to move this much," the hobbit said, though her voice was barely audible. "And don't pick up anything heavy or forget and pull on anything, and no drive -."

She abruptly clamped her lips shut and said no more, swallowing a new onrush of tears as she avoided Sev's eyes. Beside her Jasimir sat with extra bandages in his lap and said nothing.

After clearing as much of the debris from the back of the cart as possible and rearranging those items deemed salvageable by Sevilodorf, the men and orcs began to load the bodies of the dead. That was just a tad too familiar to Jasimir, who turned a pale shade of green and disappeared into the woods with Warg as accompaniment.

When the lad recovered sufficiently, he sat back on his heels and gazed at the enormous animal quietly watching him. Vaguely he reflected that at least a dog-thing would not see shame in anyone being sick.

He coughed slightly to test his voice and asked, "Is this what you were afraid of, Warg, of orcs attacking?"

"No." She shook her massive, bloodstained head and her grumbling voice dropped to an odd pitch that sounded very much like regret. "I thought the greatest threat would come from men."

Jasimir nodded and looked at his hands on his knees. "I'm sorry I didn't find that badge sooner. Maybe I could have…."

He was unsure what he could have done, if anything, and let the thought drift away unfinished. Warg gathered herself and stood, turning her long gray muzzle into the breeze.

"Come, cub. Our foe is no more, and our duty is to the pack."

With that she turned away, and Jasimir scrambled hurriedly up to follow. As Warg paced before him he watched the shift of her great haunches beneath heavy fur, and wished he could live in the 'now' of wolf-dog-thought. No past, no future, just what existed in the here and now. Only when he got back to the cart did he realize she had obliquely included him in her reference to her pack.

Moments later, the motley group began trudging back down the road into Henneth Annûn. Darien walked in front with long, grim strides, sword in hand as his keen gaze swept the woods and fields. His horse's head bobbed in a quiet pace at his heels, but at Darien's grave request it was now Sev who sat in the saddle, while the hobbit lass rode astride Warg's furry withers. Behind them Lorgarth and Corbat pulled the cart with its ghastly burden, their gnarled shoulders bent to a task that no others wished or wanted, but Darien was adamant that Henneth Annûn would see the proof of what had happened; that orcs had come to defend Men during an attack by other orcs. If that did not shake indifferent minds into wakefulness he dared not imagine what could. In the rear Horus rode with an unsheathed blade and his black eyes were coldly unfathomable.

xxx

TBC ...


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

_4th March  
__Henneth Annûn_

The village of Henneth Annûn would long remember what that morning brought among them. Straight down the central street a battered cavalcade trudged and people came from their houses and shops to stare. Where the trader Sevilodorf had driven out with her cart of wares, she now rode horseback, grimly silent and spattered with dark stains that looked very much like blood. The Lord Darien walked on foot before her and the steel in his eyes matched the bare steel in his hand. Yet it was their companions who drew gasps of shock and disbelief.

A warg - a warg! The strident whisper fled, as the great creature slunk at the Rohirrim's side, seeming as large as a yearling steer. Yet viewers' hands were stayed ere they drew blade or bow, for upon the warg's furry back clung a bandaged, scowling hobbit lass, while Jasimir son of Cameroth walked silently beside. Behind them lumbered the trader woman's cart, but now it was a butcher's wagon, heaped with inhuman bodies - and drawn by two unsightly orcs.

Murmurs of speculation ran up the streets in a wave, for it was clear a terrible fight had been fought. Yet suggestions that the two live orcs were prisoners were swiftly dispelled, when Cullen burst from the mumbling throng with a sharp cry.

"Here, you! Jasimir! What is that THING doing with my knife?"

Jasimir paused to stare at Cullen's stormy approach with a blank look, before glancing towards the orcs pulling the cart behind him.

"Oh," he said. Then he turned to pace beside the orcs. "Corbat, he wants his knife back."

"Yes, I want it back!" Cullen was nearly tripping over himself as he danced agitatedly next to Jasimir. "Are you completely mad? What do you think you're - how on earth could - why in the name of - and what is that muck stuck all over my knife?"

With never a miss in stride, Lorgarth let go one hand from the cart's shafts and plucked the ornate dagger from Corbat's belt. Giving it a double swipe on his tattered jerkin, he leaned across the shaft to extend the elegant little blade hilt-first.

"Here, Master Cullen," the orc grumbled. "Good thing we had it. This knife helped save us."

"Save … what …?"

Cullen seemed to be having trouble assimilating what he was seeing, so Jasimir impatiently seized the dagger from Lorgarth and almost shoved it into the older youth's fingers.

"We were attacked, Cullen," Jasimir retorted. "Have you no eyes?"

Knife in hand, Cullen could only stare as the strange procession rumbled and clip-clopped past, but he averted his eyes from the cart's grisly cargo. Then he found himself staring straight into Horus' piercing dark gaze, and he could not have said why he was so quick to turn away. Gingerly he turned his knife, and shuddered to see dark ichor drying at the base of the blade.

xxx

When the two orcs let down the cart shafts in the yard of The Whistling Dog, curious bystanders were not the only ones who gathered for the spectacle. Quicker than seemed possible six tall Rangers appeared in green and brown, and lookers-on drew back from the flash of stern grey eyes that forbid any closer scrutiny. The battered group soon vanished from view, but not before one incredible truth became known: the trader woman's party had been ambushed by orcs, and yet orcs and the warg had been instrumental in saving their lives.

In the kitchen Jasimir's nerves settled slowly back to normal, as he sipped a mug of tea. Amidst that homey setting he shared an embellished account of events with Pansy, who distractedly washed a pile of dishes.

"I tell you, I'm sure glad Warg is on our side," he said. "I've never seen anything so fearsome! Why, she looked big as a house charging in there and just threw those orcs around like old slippers. But then she turned right around and let our hobbit ride on her back, just like a pony." The lad shook his head as he watched the warm liquid slosh in his cup. "I'd say it's a far better thing to have a warg for a friend than an enemy."

"Oh, I should think so." Pansy turned a wide-eyed look on the youth. "And this warg is in our hay store isn't it … she?"

"Yes, she is. I'll take you to see her if you like." Mischief twinkled in his eyes. "I think she's having lunch with Lorgarth and Corbat."

Pansy's eyes widened even more. "Oh, I'm not sure about that. Let me think about it."

"You do that." Jasimir grinned. Yet his grin faded as he looked again into his tea, for his agile young mind was beginning to search for rhyme or reason behind the morning's terrible events.

In the private dining room of The Whistling Dog, Sev jerked away from the hand Alfgard lay upon her arm. Allowed to enter on the strength of his assertion that he represented her family in Rohan, the man had spent the last ten minutes crouched next to her fireside chair, pleading with her in Rohirric.

"No," she stated again in Westron. "I will stay here. And tomorrow I go back to the Troll, if I have to walk the whole way."

The ash-blonde man threw up his hands in frustration and stood to mutter to those assembled at the table, "Can't any of you make her see sense?"

"Sense?" Sev laughed hollowly, and then grimaced as her tightly wrapped wrist hit the arm of her chair. "Why ever would you think that I possess any? I spent days rebelling against the sense that saved our lives."

When Alfgard frowned down at her, Sev insisted, "'Tis true, Alfgard, whether you like it or not. It was the arrival of Warg and those two orcs that saved us. Accept it, for pity's sake. And make the rest of those toidis out there accept it as well." She stabbed a finger toward the wall and the unseen general population of Henneth Annûn.

From his seat at the table, Tarannon said softly, "The question is not whether those creatures saved you; it is why did the others attack?"

"And are there others with similar plans lurking in the woods?" Cameroth asked pointedly.

The innkeeper was still coming to terms with Jasimir's involvement in the morning's events. After admitting to his associations with Lorgarth and Corbat, the boy had quietly taken charge of settling the two orcs and the warg in the hay shed with a tray laden with the best The Whistling Dog had to offer. Furthermore, he had convinced Geralt, the inn's stable master, to ensure that the creatures went undisturbed.

The Ranger frowned slightly. "The hunters have not yet returned, but I will swear a group that size was not within three leagues of the village yesterday."

"They could have moved three leagues over night," Horus observed. "Don't your patrols go out farther?"

"Regularly," Tarannon replied bluntly. "There are just too many bolt holes in those hills to investigate every one of them. And in response to the reports coming from The Burping Troll since last summer, we have no longer been killing every orc on sight."

Sev said sharply, "What reports?"

"Reports on the unusual and docile behaviors of the orcs in that region. When Halbarad became Captain there, he convinced first Celeranth, and then myself to adopt a policy with a trifle more restraint than we had been using previously."

Sev snorted. "Leave it to Halbarad to do it all so quietly. He's the one you need on your side, Darien, not me." Shifting forward in her seat she added, "Anyway as I have told my version of the events of this morning more times than I want to. I will now drop the problem firmly in your laps and exercise my privilege as a lady to go and have a nervous breakdown in the privacy of my room. Come along, Erin."

The hobbit looked up from where she sat swinging her heels in a too-tall chair and frowned. "You are all forgetting the one biggest question," she said.

Tarannon's stern face warmed into a brief smile. "Which is?"

"Well, it's two questions, actually." Erin tapped a forefinger against her lip. "First, why on earth would orcs attack people right outside a town chock full of Rangers and such? And second … who ever heard of orcs attacking in broad daylight?"

Tarannon exchanged glances with Darien and Horus, whilst Alfgard scowled and raised a hand to rub his chin. In that brief silence Erin glanced from one of them to the other and sat straighter.

"Well, they seemed like good questions to me!"

"They are excellent questions, Mistress Erin," Tarannon replied soberly. "Very excellent questions indeed."

"Which I trust you can pursue without us," Sev interjected.

Ignoring the hand Alfgard extended to help her, Sevilodorf rose stiffly from her seat. After pointing the hobbit toward the door, she said sternly, "Though I know you are far too proud to admit your aches and pains, Darien, that slash to your leg is not going to improve without proper treatment. And Alfgard, you have seen to the needs of the horses?"

Sev's tone was so like that of Berethor, the family's arms master in Rohan, that Alfgard automatically straightened his shoulders, and snapped out, "Sey, ris,"

"Good," said Sev, wearing a satisfied expression, as the man's face flushed with embarrassment at his unconscious reaction. "I will check with you later today concerning repairs to my cart, the borrowing of two saddle horses and the disposal of …"

Her mask of bravado faltered and slipped, and the grief she had kept so carefully in check was written plainly on her face. Leaving the sentence unfinished, she followed Erin into the hallway.

Behind her Tarannon propped his elbows on the table and bowed his head to rake his fingers through his hair. "When I woke up this morning," he sighed, "my biggest concern was that my left boot has been pinching miserably." Raising his head to draw that same hand over his face, he added, "I dare say I've had my priorities adjusted."

"Aye," Alfgard agreed in heavy tones. "At least I know what horse to give her for the ride home." His pale eyes glinted as he looked up. "And at least she bled the beasts that killed Dream. That mare carried the old blood in her veins."

Out in the empty hallway, Sev paused to curb her treacherous emotions, aware of Erin watching worriedly but silently. Both failed to notice Jareth standing with a tray of steaming mugs until the man cleared his throat uncertainly.

Dashing away traitorous tears, Sev exclaimed, "Just the person I wanted to see. Would you do me a favor?"

Shifting the tray to one hand, the bartender pointed toward the end of the hall. "Already done, Sev. Two hot baths filled and ready. Water's heating for the men to use after you ladies get through."

"Bless you, Jareth." She plucked at the front of her tunic, which was stiff with black blood. "Do you think Pansy can find us some clothes? I have no idea where our things are."

"Out in the bushes," said Erin petulantly. "Horrid orcs made a mess of everything."

Jareth eyed the small but round figure of the hobbit and the taller and even rounder figure of the Rohirrim. "I'll find something. Is there anything else I can do for you ladies?"

Sev exchanged glances with Erin, and then decided she might as well go for broke. "There is one more thing…."

xxx

Cullen sat on his usual stool facing Margul who occupied the room's only chair. The youth had been certain that his news would cheer his master, the orc lovers being attacked by orcs, but no expression of pleasure yet appeared on that thin, pallid face. At least Margul seemed sufficiently interested to ask questions.

"You say that there were about twenty orcs, yet two men, a woman and a hobbit managed to fight them off." His voice almost dripped disbelief.

"No. Sorry. I'm not telling this very well. It's rather complicated. It seems they had help: two of Drath's orcs and a warg."

Margul's green eyes widened as the dark pupils shrank to mere pinpoints. "Two of Drath's orcs and a _warg_?"

"Aye. That's another of the unnatural pets they keep at The Burping Troll. It wouldn't surprise me if their balrog hadn't helped out too."

"This is ridiculous!" Margul spat the words. "Are you telling me that this warg and balrog actually exist?"

Noticing his master's knuckles whiten as slender fingers gripped the chair arms, Cullen decided that maybe the news wasn't quite as cheering as he had hoped. "Yes," he confirmed quietly.

The thin man sprang up and walked to the window, grimly looking out into the street. Seconds lengthened into minutes, but Cullen dare not break the silence; he sat rigid upon the stool in discomfort and disquiet.

Then abruptly, Margul spun on his heels and stated in a blank voice, "I've been meaning to mention that I have to leave the village to conduct some business elsewhere."

"Oh," That was the last thing Cullen expected, but then he never managed to correctly predict anything about the man. "When will you be going?"

"Today."

The youth frowned as he struggled to take that in. "So soon? When will you be coming back?"

"I'm not sure. Not for quite a while. Might be weeks, might be months."

"But … but … what should I do?" Cullen was, after all, Margul's employee.

"I suggest you find yourself some other work to tide you over. Mark me though, you are still heavily in my debt, and if I require you to conduct further duties, I will expect an instant response."

That was good then … maybe … Cullen was not sure.

His master soon cleared up the confusion. "One of the things I am likely to ask you to do is re-supply Minna, as you did last time. If so, I'll send the details in a letter."

"But …" Cullen groped for words. He was losing his job, having to find a new one, but he was still under Margul's control, and he might have to face Minna again. It wasn't fair.

"What's that?" The man changed the subject by suddenly pointing a long finger to the hilt of Cullen's dagger where black still stained the engravings.

"Orc blood," the youth answered in little more than a whisper.

"You stabbed an orc?"

"No. No. Not me. Corbat did."

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Margul's eyes shimmered like frogspawn. "Corbat, Drath's orc, used the knife I paid for to kill the orc attackers?"

"Yes," Cullen brightened at this succinct summary. "Fortunate really, because, if only indirectly, we helped save the day."

Margul inhaled deeply, seemingly considering his response. When it came, it was again, unexpected. "You better go now, Cullen. I've got a lot to organise. Just remember what I told you."

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but his master's carefully enunciated 'Just Go' made it clear that the best course of action was to follow orders.

The youth had taken only a few steps down the street when he heard a loud crash. Briefly he wondered if someone somewhere had broken something.

xxx

"Stop shaking, will you? You're getting water everywhere."

"Sorry, but that's what Warg's do when they're wet. Shake."

"Not Wargs who take baths inside The Whistling Dog. Now sit still and I'll towel you off. How's the leg?

"Fine." Warg gave her foreleg a quick lick. "He didn't have many teeth so it didn't leave too many holes."

Sev snorted. "You are the only warg I know to be bitten by an orc."

"Like you know so many," Warg retorted, rolling her eyes.

"True…you are rather unique." Sev gave a final rub with the towel behind Warg's ears. "There you're done. Now for my own."

By taking unfair advantage of Jareth, who was not fast enough to think of a polite way to deny Sev's request, Warg had been smuggled through the back door and into the bathing room. What Cameroth would say when he discovered the subterfuge was something none of the three humans involved would lay odds to, though both Sevilodorf and Jareth had vowed to take the blame for the plot. However, the question of how to remove the doggish odor of wet warg from the bathhouse was a puzzle best left for other heads.

Erin had taken her bath before Warg, quickly scrubbing away the dirt, dried buttermilk, flour and other substances she did not want to consider. Wrapped in a shirt far too big for her, and with Sev's assurance that she and Warg were quite capable of managing with one hand and three paws between them, the hobbit was now gone with Pansy to be cosseted and pampered. With any luck she hoped to also arrange retrieval of their clothing, when Alfgard returned with the armed group who had gone to salvage the tumbled contents of Sev's cart.

Knowing with certainty that she would rather burn her garments than ever wear them again, Sev kicked her clothing into the corner of the room and carefully lowered herself into the second waiting tub, which was mercifully free of warg dirt. Hissing as her swollen wrist throbbed in the warm water, Sev took inventory of the damages. A large bruise was darkening on her hip, and the hot water found aches and stings she had not previously noticed. The worst, by a luck she was still too shocked to appreciate, was the sprained wrist.

"I better make Bob an entire banquet, instead of just a cake," Sev murmured washing the dirt from a narrow cut running along her forearm. Whether it was luck or training, she had survived, and she would give credit where credit was due.

For a time the only sounds were the quiet splashing of water and the click of the Warg's teeth as she nibbled at something between her toes.

"Sevi?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm sorry."

Sev sighed. Her life had taken a most bizarre road. Wargs offering condolences for the death of a horse. And people expected her to be sensible. A sensible person would have gone insane long ago.

Sitting up, she met the Warg's copper eyes. "She was my friend for a long time. The only one I took with me when I left Rohan, and I will miss her dearly."

Warg tilted her head as Sev sank back into the warm water. The lupine knew she did not understand grief as the humans did. Wargs, as a rule, ate their dead; though she doubted if Sevilodorf wanted to hear that right at the moment. Humans were awful squeamish about some things.

"Uh… Sevi?"

"What?"

"Does this mean we tell Lover-boy he was right?"

"Unfortunately," Sev sighed. Maybe it was time to give up wandering the roads; lately it seemed that her ability to attract trouble had increased to rather dramatic proportions. Oh, well, she would think on that tomorrow.

"Do you think he'll give me a bonus?"

Sev sat up with a splash, and shoved wet hair out of her eyes. "Warg, if it will make you leave me in peace long enough to soak away the blood and grime, I'll promise to go to the kitchen and make you a haggis myself."

Warg chuffed softly; an angry Sev was more to her liking than a morose one. "No, no, I do want to be able to eat it."

Sev slapped a shower of water at the animal.

"Who's getting water all over the place now?"

"You've become as mercenary as a dwarf and as picky as a hobbit."

"Don't forget as witty as an elf."

The Rohirrim rolled her eyes. There was no winning this argument. "Very well. A bonus. Decide what you want, and I'll see that you get it."

Warg grinned, and the woman closed her eyes at the sight of all those sharp teeth. The warg might be lucky enough to live in the moment but Sev knew that she was doomed to repeat the events of today in her memories for some time to come.

"I'll think on it."

"Fine. Just think quietly."

"Sevi…"

"Nmad ti. What now?"

"No pony biscuits though."

Accepting the comment in the spirit it was meant, Sev sank once more into the water, sternly focusing on the here and now.

xxx

Cullen downed a much-needed drink at The Whistling Dog. He preferred The Black Cauldron but, despite his bleak mood, his rarely awoken curiosity drew him to the focal point of village excitement. Sira approached the bar with a tray piled high with empty tankards. Seeing him, the redhead scrunched a secret scowl of irritation, a silent but pointed comment about the extra custom the day's events had provoked.

Cullen, however, read another meaning into her annoyance. He sent her a smile of wry sympathy then waited for her to put the tray down before commenting, "That was rather unexpected. How long have you known?"

"How long have I known what?" Sira's brow creased in puzzlement.

"About Margul. That he's leaving."

"What?" The furrows deepened. "Margul? When?" That last word hissed between her teeth as her head sank towards her shoulders, eyes blazing.

The young man blinked at her sudden change of demeanour. "Today, so he just told me. Didn't you know?"

"Did he pass on a message for me?" Now Sira's face seemed almost the same colour as her hair.

"No. I presumed you knew. He certainly never tells me anything."

Cullen momentarily waved his empty tankard at Pansy behind the bar, seeking another drink and hoping to capture her attention long enough to discover exactly what she and Jasimir had said about him. When he turned back to Sira, she was gone.

xxx

Margul's room had always been sparsely furnished; now it looked almost empty. The evidence of habitation, personal belongings, everything that Margul possessed, he was either wearing or in the process of packing into a large saddlebag. Sira's eyes noted, without thought, one exception to the pristine vacancy, a shattered stool beneath a wall bearing an impact mark.

Shaking her copper curls in bewilderment, she stared at his back as he bent over his task. "I don't understand."

"There is nothing for you to understand other than that important business calls me elsewhere."

"But I thought…" Sira's words faltered as Margul fastened the bag and finally turned to look at her.

"Thought what?" His green eyes faded to silver as his lips curled in a faint sneer. "That I would take you with me? Whatever gave you that impression?"

Moving towards him, Sira attempted to close a distance that was more than space with a beguiling smile and swaying step. "We talked…"

"You talked of it, you mean. My dear." Margul reached out to touch her cheek with his index finger as he said silkily, "Surely you are old enough to know the difference between daydreams and reality."

Stung, Sira sputtered, "But you -."

"Promised? Tsk tsk, my girl, you are not listening." Sira drew back as he again lifted his hand towards her face. He let his arm drop and stated coldly, "I did no such thing."

"Then why…?" Sira seemed to be unable to utter a complete thought.

Margul gave the room one last careful look then flicked his hand in dismissal. "It was an enjoyable time, my dear. And a profitable one for both of us."

Her eyes widened in growing realization - and growing rage. "You think I only -."

"Of course, what other reason could there be?" Margul gave a low chuckle. "You surely do not profess to be in love with me? I think we both know each other better than that. I travel light, and I don't take with me what I can easily acquire anywhere."

He drew a small sack from his tunic, the coins inside briefly chinking as he dropped it upon the table. Gathering up his saddlebag and tossing his cloak over his arm, he stepped to the door.

There he paused and turned, his fey eyes appraising her one last time. "You might consider investing some of that in a better quality of hair dye. I understand the Rohirrim trader carries a rather interesting assortment."

After the door closed, after his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, after many minutes of her standing in white-faced fury, Sira exploded into a stream of oaths that would have made an orc blush. Margul would not get away with that! To use then humiliate her, and that final jibe was beyond endurance. Grabbing up the bag of coins, Sira kicked the small table over. Wherever he had gone, however long it took, she swore she would get her revenge.

xxx

TBC ...


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

_5th March  
__Northern Ithilien_

The journey back to The Burping Troll proved mercifully uneventful. Early on the morning after the orc ambush, Alfgard had brought two saddle horses to the courtyard of The Whistling Dog. He had selected a small, quiet mare for Erin to ride. And for Sevilodorf … well, that choice had raised Darien's and Horus' eyebrows. The horse was an ill-favoured creature, pink-nosed, droopy-eared and looking like it had never been groomed in its life. Yet the Rohirrim woman had seemed delighted, greeting the sorry nag like a long-lost friend. In fact, it turned out to be just so, as she introduced 'Biscuit' to them all.

An escort of three Rangers rode with them despite Warg's assurances that she would smell trouble if it were out there. Captain Tarannon refused to take any chances. Rather than protest, Sevilodorf took advantage of the situation by distributing the many reports, salvaged from the cart, into the saddlebags of all who were making the journey. And all, again including the Rangers, carried with them the few items that were considered essential supplies for the Troll. Arrangements were made to have the remaining items sent on when repairs were completed on Sev's cart, though the trader had avoided any direct references to a replacement for Dream. They set out in the misty, cool morning, riding grimly past the site of the orc attack, then turning their thoughts towards the homely inn that awaited their return.

Warg scouted the road well ahead of the group or circled back to ensure that no one was following them from Henneth Annûn. Occasionally, she appeared unannounced to trot alongside Sevilodorf and deliver a short report before returning to the woods, snickering happily at the effect she had on the Rangers' mounts. Thus, it was through the ears and nose of the warg, that the group was warned well in advance of Halbarad's approach.

Moments later he appeared, trotting down the road towards them at a brisk clip with his cloak snapping behind him. Sev and Erin were a day overdue, and the Ranger Captain had started to worry. Not it would appear, his sharp eyes taking in their bandages and the presence of the three Rangers, without reason.

"Gentlemen!" he said crisply, then with a softening nod, "Ladies. You are a welcome sight."

Then Hal focused the brunt of his curiosity on the trouble-magnet, Sevilodorf. "What kept you and where is your cart?"

Telling herself that his strident tone was merely an indication of his concern and that his words felt like accusations only because she had spent the last day blaming herself for not being more careful, Sev counted to ten before replying in a tight voice.

"Ask Darien and Horus. I don't feel up to explaining."

Perhaps fearing that the Captain and the trader were about to engage in one of their infamous "discussions", Erin blurted out, "Oh, Hal, it was awful."

Thus claiming the captain's startled attention she burst into a near-frantic speech. "We were coming home yesterday when a whole band of orcs ambushed us. Real orcs, Hal, not like our Gubbitch and oh, what a fearsome fight it was! Darien killed some and Horus killed some -," the hobbit punctuated her description with strikes of an imaginary sword, her little arm flashing to and fro, "and Sev, well, she was like a warrior, and she killed some, and I threw broken pots. But there were so many! Then Warg came like a ferocious … well, warg," Erin gnashed her teeth, "and Lorgarth and Corbat -." Now the hobbit twisted her features in an attempt to look like an orc, "and they all killed some, until there were no orcs left - except Lorgarth and Corbat of course. And we were all safe, aside from a few cuts and bruises … only -."

Her animation ceased as she fell silent for a moment. Halbarad's growing confusion at her tale changed to alarm as he watched big tears start to well in the hobbit's eyes. Nudging his horse closer to her little mare, he glanced up quickly to assure that everyone was alive who needed to be, then cocked his head in concern.

"Only what?" the Ranger Captain asked gently.

As the tears spilt and ran down her cheeks, Erin replied, "Only Dream…" the hobbit's fingers covered her mouth, as if holding back the words would make them untrue. "… Only Dream was not safe. She died."

With a briskness that hid her own sorrow, Sev pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and thrust it towards the hobbit. "Here, blow your nose."

Then turning to Halbarad with a carefully controlled expression, she said, "Might the rest of this inquisition wait until we get home?"

"Aye," he replied gravely, knowing how much the Rohirrim woman cared for her horse. "It can wait."

The slightest pull on the reins turned Halbarad's steed, and his hand fell to caress the satin neck of the stallion, his own companion through many miles and many deeds. Thus the Captain led the way back to The Burping Troll. Questions would wait, but his face was shadowed with the worries of his thoughts.

xxx

A trio of merchants traveling south from settlements along the River Running was left to the tender mercies of the balrog and a somewhat distracted pair of elves while Meri, Camellia and Milo devoted themselves to fetching, carrying and tutting with concern over Sevilodorf and Erin. Meanwhile, Darien found himself the focus of the rather overwhelming enthusiasm of Kerwin and Aerio.

"Lord Darien, the whole system is based upon Aerio's idea of ranking the files according to the consequences of interaction with the orcs, using one as the most positive reaction and a six as the least favourable. From there we sorted by the occupations of the individuals involved and their ages." Kerwin's brown eyes blinked earnestly as he hovered beside Darien's chair, his fingers fluttering lightly over one of several stacks of documents spread on the table before them.

"Kerwin is much too modest." Aerio stepped closer to remove an ink pot from beside Kerwin's elbow. "It was his suggestion of colour coding the information that makes it workable. Then it was merely a matter of analysing the dispatches we have received and making copies whenever necessary."

As the elf and young man looked on, Darien stood and leafed through the neatly scripted stack of papers he had been handed. All with small dots of colour in the upper left hand corner.

"Copies?"

"Oh, yes, Lord Darien," replied Kerwin, with an eagerly flourishing wave of his palm that would have swept several piles of paper to the floor, had it not been for Aerio's quick hand flattening the fluttering papers. "Gambesul and Belegalda were most accommodating."

Darien glanced over to where the two elves just named attempted to fulfil the role of waiter that circumstances had foisted upon them. If the delighted expression on the faces of the merchants was anything to go by, they were proving more than competent. Having pints pulled by a towering, terrible balrog would have been impressive enough for the travellers; that they were now being served meals by exquisite and mysterious elven folk left them wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Darien couldn't help smiling slightly at the scene.

Kerwin followed his gaze and said, "I never realized that elves were so… so… well, so much like people."

As Aerio laughed, Kerwin blushed and stepped backwards, almost colliding with Milo who was carrying a tray piled high with apple pastries still steaming from the oven.

"Careful there," the hobbit lad exclaimed and stepped, in a well practised manoeuvre, quickly to the left to avoid Kerwin, then to the right to escape Aerio's fingers reaching to snatch several of the pastries. "These are for Sevilodorf and Erin. Yours will be along in a moment."

Steadying the young man as he collided with a sturdy bench in his attempt to sidestep the hobbit, Darien said, "I'm amazed at the amount of effort you've put into this. When I saw the mountain of dispatches Tarannon had waiting in Henneth Annûn and was told that an equal number had already been delivered here, I felt certain this petition was doomed to a long delay."

Long fingers folding precisely before his face, Aerio regarded the man seriously. "It is essential that this matter be resolved before the case of Nik the Uruk-hai can be decided. While the patience of the elves is well-known, that of the Beornings is uncertain, and that of a particular lady of Rohan is non-existent."

"I heard that, Aerio," Sevilodorf called from her place near the windows. Excusing herself to Erin, who was currently beguiling Horus with recipes for pumpkin pie, she rose and plucked a pastry from Milo's tray. Leaving the hobbits and Haradrim to manage the rest, she made her way to give the elf a small frown.

"As I'm sure I was meant to." Placing the fingertips of one hand on the table, she added, "'Tis not lack of patience that will prove my undoing, Master Elf, but an inability to accept that occasionally there are others who do know what is better for me than I do myself." Not allowing time for this cryptic statement to be deciphered, she went on.

"And I will continue to insist that my luck is not all bad. I do tend to balance things out." Pointing to Darien and Kerwin with her pastry, she said, "I owe my acquaintance with many good people to the most disagreeable situations. Do I not, Aerio?"

Handsome face ever so carefully bland, the elf replied, "You do possess an uncommon knack for acquiring auspicious champions, from a rather wide variety of backgrounds."

"While I will claim the friendship of orcs, elves, hobbits and the flower of Gondor, I am uncertain whether I would go so far as to call them all champions." Sev gave Kerwin and Darien a small smile, "Save perhaps for the present company. Each of whom I owe debts of gratitude that are too large to pay."

Kerwin blushed and stammered, "Oh - not at all, Mistress Sevilodorf. I did nothing - nothing any gentleman - any right-minded gentleman would not do."

Meanwhile Darien gave a small bow and reflected once more on Sev's capacity for forgiveness. It was due to his error that the Rohirrim trader had been caught up in the chaos resulting from hunting orcs who, it turned out, were good friends to the residents of the Troll.

"The debt is entirely on my side, Mistress Sevilodorf," Darien said.

"I refuse to argue the point with you again. Now if you will excuse me, I am escaping to my room for some peace and quiet. Will you give my good nights to the others, Aerio?" Sev nodded toward the table where the Burping Troll Rangers sat with the three Rangers from Henneth Annûn.

"Of course, Mistress Sevi," the elf replied. Then with a smirk, added, "Are you certain you do not need some assistance? I could call for Camellia or Meri."

"Don't you dare," Sev exclaimed quickly, and flexed her bandaged wrist - carefully balancing her still-uneaten pastry - with a grimace. "I am quite capable of tending to myself. At least I have sense enough to stop when it hurts."

Darien concluded this remark was meant for him and replied with a faint smile, "I can do no more than promise that I will sit and take the weight off my leg. As Aerio pointed out, it's essential that this petition be heard as soon as possible. Thus I need to at least begin sorting the dispatches we brought from Henneth Annûn."

Giving a slight shake of her head, Sev explained, "Darien, it is my experience that if one wishes to avoid an overpowering headache, one should vacate the area when these two get to organising things. Leave them with the dispatches we carried in today and by tomorrow they will have sorted everything within an inch of its life. Then you may sit down with Celebsul and Halbarad to discuss the best way to present the information to Lord Faramir."

Darien sketched another bow and Sev shrugged. "You will do as you deem best. Aerio, see that Lord Darien at least makes it to his room before midnight - Healer's Orders."

The Rohirrim woman's swift exit was only slightly delayed by the need to sidestep twice to avoid Kerwin's efforts to get out of her way. Darien decided to take her advice, and after Aerio assured him that they would indeed have the documents sorted by morning, he made his way over to the hearth where Warg lay chewing a massive, meaty soup bone.

As Darien settled into an armchair beside the blazing fire, Warg looked up from her special treat and asked, "What's next? Not that I can pretend to understand all this Man Law stuff, but what on earth will you do with all that paper?"

Bowing his head to rake the fingers of one hand through his hair, Darien drew a deep breath. "I've been asking myself the same question. I suppose the next main step is to summarise the information and send that summary to Faramir. Then he can decide if we have gathered enough evidence to proceed."

Delicately stripping a piece of meat from the bone, Warg swallowed it before replying. "You Men make things so complicated. There's good and there's bad. If it's good, I leave it be; if it's bad, I bite it."

The laugh Darien gave was short and without humour. "I used to think so too, Mistress Warg. Until I bit the wrong people."

Warg paused in mid-gnaw, then let the thought go. Human lives were entirely too tangled for her. If people just made a full belly and a warm place to sleep all they should require, everything would get a whole lot simpler.

xxx

"Thank you, Milo," Sev said as the hobbit lad gave the hearth a final flick with the broom.

The air had grown cool as the afternoon progressed with traces of clouds occasionally blocking the sun's brightness. Although the hobbit lasses' had finally given up trying to wheedle her into staying in the inn, they would not hear of her sitting in her room without a fire to drive the chill away. Nor would they allow her to lift the wood, or the broom, or for that matter anything heavier than a fork. And the elves were not much better.

Well, let them focus their attentions on Darien, Horus, Erin and the warg, she had escaped to the privacy of her own room.

"You're certain you have everything you need?" Milo responded.

"Yes, I'm certain." Sevilodorf waved at the tray atop the small table that Meri and Camellia had set up beside her chair. "If there's anything missing from that assortment, I can't begin to imagine what it is."

As the hobbit lad hesitated, Sev said firmly, "Good night, Milo."

"Good night, Sevi. Don't you worry about the stables, Gambesul and I will take care of them."

"Thank you, Milo," she repeated and pointedly opened the door.

"If you're sure…"

"I'm positive. Tell the others I am bolting the door and not planning on leaving this room until morning."

Milo smiled cheekily and replied, "Your morning or the rest of the world's?"

"Good night, Milo."

Pushing the door shut, she dropped the bar into place and stood with her eyes closed, savouring the quiet. The sound of glass clinking against wood alerted her to the fact that the room's other occupant was once again up to mischief.

"Tac," she said with a soft chuckle. "I suppose it could have been far worse."

At the sound of her voice, the kitten meowed plaintively and batted at a small box on the tray.

"It might smell good, but it's not to eat. Let's find you something. Surely there's food on that tray."

She sorted through all manner of unexpected items that the hobbits thought she might need: candles, paper, ink, a small book of poems by someone called Dumo Toeworthy, herbal tea leaves wrapped in cloth, a plate of cold sliced beef with smoked trout, cheese and beetroot, half a loaf of bread and a shallow jar containing butter.

Filling a dish with an assortment of suitable nibbles and placing it on the floor beside the chair, Sev sat and watched the kitten eat. Then leaning back, she took the tiny brassbound box from the tray and brushed her fingers over the minute holes arranged in a four-sided star. Opening the lid, she rubbed the nuggets within. The smell of sun-warmed wood filled the air; a scent forever to be associated with the grey-eyed man who had walked out of a pouring rain and into her heart.

Thank goodness, he was as hard headed as she was. Without his insistence that Warg accompany her, yesterday's attack would have ended very differently.

Carefully, she slid the box closed and sighed. It was bad enough that she might risk her own neck, but Erin's death would have been too high a price to pay for indulging her independent streak.

The kitten completed his meal and jumped into her lap to knead her thighs with prickly paws.

"What do you think, Tac?" she asked stroking the baby soft fur.

Closing his eyes to mere slits, Tac refused to answer, or perhaps the rumbling purr of contentment was his answer.

xxx

_8th March  
__Henneth Annûn_

The common room of the Black Cauldron was suffused with a faint blue haze that was not entirely from ill-smelling pipes or a poorly-drawing chimney. Apparently the cook had once again let the balance of fire and food get away from him. However, the stuff that came out of that kitchen was edible if not entirely palatable, and a certain wayward farmer's son found his stomach growling anxiously.

Cullen hunched his shoulders in reaction to Drath's loud, "No tab for that one, you understand. Don't go feeling sorry for him, Tess, or the money'll come outta your wages."

The serving girl set a platter of sausage and potatoes before Cullen with a sympathetic smile. Lately, the tavern had been overwhelmed with customers hoping to catch a glimpse of Lorgarth and Corbat. Drath, never one to pass up an opportunity to increase his profits, had dressed the two orcs in new suits of clothing and set them to waiting the tables in the evenings. Incongruous a novelty as this was, it also forced the barmaids to take over the kitchen chores and tend to the less-profitable daytime shifts. Even worse, all the customers wanted to do was sit around re-fighting every battle they'd ever been in or heard of, without even giving a hard working girl a good tip. Tess was beginning to think she should just pack up and head back to Minas Tirith. Thus piqued she placed both hands on her well-rounded hips and prepared to do battle with her employer.

"Don't," said Cullen in a dull voice. "Don't get yourself in trouble for my sake."

With a sigh Tess gave him a motherly pat on the shoulder and fluffed up her blonde curls. "Ah, honey, I didn't know you cared. You know you really aren't looking too good. Rather peaked. You just go on and eat. I can stand you the meal."

"No need to do that." A scattering of copper coins was set upon the table by a work worn hand. "That should cover it. "

"It will at that." Tess smiled broadly, giving Cullen's arm a squeeze. "See, things are looking up already."

Cullen slouched lower in his seat and watched as his father rubbed his balding head self-consciously when the barmaid gave him a wink. Then she sauntered past a scowling Drath with her hips swaying saucily.

"Mind if I join you, Cullen?" Farmer Tiroc asked hesitantly.

"You're paying for it," Cullen muttered. Then lowered his head into his hands and said, "I'm sorry, Da. I didn't mean it that way."

Tiroc sighed. Everything was so much easier with his other sons. They wanted the same things he wanted. Crops to tend, animals to raise, and quiet homes for their families. The move to Ithilien had given them what they desired. But Cullen, now, he had different dreams.

"And I didn't mean to imply that I was buying you along with the meal."

"I know that, Da. It's not _your _way."

Cullen sat up and motioned to the chair beside him, while bitterly reflecting on how he had been bought by someone he thought would be a reliable and worthy employer. An employer who would help him become something important, not just use him as an errand boy for a few weeks, then toss him aside.

The days since Margul's abrupt departure had been difficult. The few coins he actually possessed had soon disappeared into the hands of his sticklike landlady. Only this morning he had made arrangements at the stables for his horse to be sold, since he had no way to continue paying for its feed. Stabbing a sausage with rather more force than required, Cullen considered that his father would probably rejoice to learn that he had sworn off drinking, after deciding that food was a higher priority for the time being.

Tiroc had barely settled into the seat when Tess returned to slide a tray with a second plate and a mug of ale onto the table.

"Here you go, more sociable with both of you eating." She gave a smile calculated to bring out her dimples. "Figured you'd be wanting an ale, sir, was what you had before."

Nodding at the barmaid, Tiroc said. "A good memory you've got, lass. Thank you kindly."

Flicking her apron at the tabletop, Tess gave the farmer another wink. For the first time since Margul had left town, Cullen felt the faint stirrings of amusement as he watched his father attempt to pull in his ample stomach and return the barmaid's smile.

"She's a nice young lady," Tiroc said to Cullen, after Tess had moved off to greet another group of customers.

Since there seemed no reply to that, Cullen nodded and picked up his fork. He hadn't eaten anything since yesterday and his stomach was more interested in the food than in any discussion about Tess. Focused on his meal, the young man failed to notice that his father wasn't eating but simply sipping his ale and watching.

It was only moments before Cullen speared the last of the sausage and looked up to find his father studying him with wide-eyed amazement. Shrugging, the youth pointed to the other plate and said, "Would you mind?"

"No, no. You go right on, son. I had my lunch a ways back. A big helping of your mother's shepherd pie. Was hoping you would help me out with it anyway."

"Gladly." Too hungry for shame, Cullen hastily pulled the extra plate to him. "I've been on short funds for the last few days."

'_Do try not to whine about it_,' he told himself sternly.

Silently, slowly Tiroc nodded. He had been informed of Cullen's circumstances by several well-meaning citizens. Gossipy old poke-noses delighting in the boy's change of luck, he had told his wife, but she had urged him to put aside his pride and try to talk to their son. At first he had blustered and declared that the boy had been given his chance and chosen to burn his bridges behind him.

"Build another one," his wife had declared with pleading eyes.

So here he sat with no idea what to say to the boy.

Then a notion occurred to him. "We're struggling with the farm since losing Rablot, and much more with you gone. We've been trying to ready that far field for planting this year, but your brothers and I can hardly cope."

"The field nearest the road?"

Cullen's face brightened with interest until he remembered that was the field where Rablot had been killed. Murdered. And that he had helped lead the killers to the orc. An intense desire for a strong drink welled up in him, and he forced himself to take a long swallow of lukewarm tea.

Tiroc, reading Cullen's expression as only a father could, searched for something that would rivet the boy's attention. Shaking his head with regret, the farmer said, "In fact your sister and mother have started helping out."

Startled, Cullen looked up from the almost-empty second plate. "Ma's not working the farm, not with her bad back?"

"Aye, she is." It was not really a lie. His wife still cleaned the eggs and graded them by size and colour: big, medium, small, brown, speckled, white. She would help support the bridge he was fabricating, even though it was a rather flimsy one. "And she misses seeing you around the farm; we all do." That, at least, was true.

The lad pondered for a moment. He didn't want to be a farmer, to spend his life with mud beneath his fingernails, and worse. He wanted notable, well-paid work of the kind that would make people look up to him. To live in a city like Minas Tirith, in a big house, to venture out into the lively streets of an evening, dressed in fine clothes. He wanted to be proud of himself.

But maybe it was not all about his pride. His parents cared for him, and he for them. Cullen suddenly realised how that would remain true, no matter his circumstances. And even when he was penniless, the likes of Tess still had time for him.

Wiping a last piece of bread around the chipped plate to soak up any residue of food and grease, Cullen recalled meals around the plain, solid table in the farmhouse kitchen. With a pang that was not his stomach he remembered his mother cheerfully slicing a loaf still hot from the oven, his brothers laughing at some joke or other, and his sister chatting about the antics of a dog, or a hen, or a pig.

He sighed heavily. Why was he eating badly cooked food in a grimy, gloomy tavern? Why did he sleep on a lumpy mattress in the squalid back room of a stranger's hovel? At home, he had a well-furnished, cosy bedroom with clean, colourful linen and curtains.

Oh, it had been marvelous to have money and expensive things, to command respect, well, at least from some. But the cost of that had been to suffer the unpredictable moods of Margul, the sinister man in Minas Tirith and, worst of all, Minna! That threat still hung over him, through his indebtedness to Margul. Thoughts of milking cows and tilling soil seemed tempting by comparison, at least for a while. One day he would be important, he just knew it. Meanwhile, however, home sounded good.

Pushing the empty plate away, Cullen announced, "Ma shouldn't have to work the farm. If you're short-handed, I'll come back."

Farmer Tiroc experienced two conflicting emotions: relief and irritation. Bless his stubborn heart, the lad made it sound like he was doing them all a favour. Though he loved his youngest son, the boy always exasperated him. Stifling the urge to ask where his next meal would be coming from if he didn't come home, Tiroc realized it was time to accept that his youngest son would never really make a farmer. Maybe the way forward was to find out what he could be good at, and help him achieve it.

But for now, Tiroc simply said, "We'd really appreciate that, Cullen. Your ma will be over the moon."

xxx

TBC ...


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

_12th March  
__Emyn Arnen_

All of the King's Chief Justices gathered in Faramir's Hall of State in Emyn Arnen, seated around a long table of polished oak. The prince explained the dilemma and presented them with an open choice. He would not instruct any to take up the role of defender of the petition to bring orcs within the laws of the Realm, nor would he the opposing council. Instead he asked for volunteers.

Faramir raised his brows when the amiable and portly Lord Goldur stood up. "I'll present the petition to the Grand Council. It's time I had a rest from my travels."

A ripple of mild amusement animated the gathering. Goldur was known to enjoy his role as Circuit Judge, scarcely ever appearing in the royal courts or councils.

From a seat by the door, as far from the blazing hearth as possible, another of the lords chuckled dryly and with a wheezing voice announced, "Goldur, if you are defending, then I very much want to oppose. It's been years since I crossed swords with you. You are the only one amongst us that I have ever lost against. And it is high time I extracted my revenge."

Lord Valthaur it was; a man with a presence even greater than his massive girth. He was renown for his ability to grip the listener's attention whilst presenting arguments of unassailable logic. To anyone, accused or accuser, this would be the man they would first chose to represent them. His success rate far surpassed that of any of the other King's Justices and, as such, his reputation and wealth were outstanding.

Faramir respected Lord Valthaur's intelligence and knowledge, as did all who ever had occasion to consult or debate with him. The prince would rather this man be arguing for the orcs than against them but at least no one could claim that the justices had been deliberately selected to ensure the outcome, unless that outcome was to keep orcs outside of the Realm's laws.

xxx

In his private office, after the other judges departed, Faramir sat opposite Goldur and Valthaur as they thumbed through two summary reports. The one Goldur read arrived a few days ago, sent by Lord Darien of Silverbrook. The other had been commissioned by the prince to provide the required even-handedness. Thus both justices had access to a wealth of evidence.

Lord Goldur thrust out his bottom lip as he scanned the summary, while Lord Valthaur sat in intense concentration, his breath whistling faintly in the otherwise silent room. From time to time, each of the justices lifted a glass of wine to their lips and sipped appreciatively.

On reaching the final page, Goldur concluded, "This looks to be a thorough survey. How about yours, Valthaur?"

"It's a start. Unvarnished facts that I'll add some flesh to." The law lord patted his vast belly and smiled a rare smile.

Faramir poured fresh glasses of wine. His chamberlain, Willelmus, had specially selected the bottle. Despite that man's many faults, he could be relied upon to know the tastes and peculiarities of most of the leading officials. While Goldur would be content with any passable vintage or even a mug of ale, Valthaur was a connoisseur who would not eat or drink anything of less than supreme quality.

The hearing date was set for the Gondorian high day, Tuilérë; Spring Day, the Quenya word translated to, and by Shire reckoning, it would be the first day of April. The choice was appropriate, to hold such a significant event on a holiday, as it would invariably disrupt normal activity in the capital, Minas Tirith This is where the Grand Council would gather for the hearing, in the Great Hall.

Now the preliminary arrangements needed to be agreed. Goldur proposed to journey to the infamous Burping Troll Inn to meet with Darien and sift through the detailed evidence. He confessed to looking forward to the trip. Valthaur, on the other hand, never travelled if he could avoid it. He would summons the detailed documents to be delivered to his office. He kept sufficient staff to do any necessary legwork.

That settled, Faramir held up his glass in tribute to the two lords. "You have both taken on demanding and onerous duties. I wish you well in your endeavours. May the outcome be what is best for our Realm and its peoples."

xxx

_18th March  
__Northern Ithilien_

While both Darien and Horus had reassured the hobbits that Goldur was a friendly sort, the small folk had nevertheless fallen into a frenzy of cleaning and gathering in of foodstuffs when they heard the news that a judge would be visiting. A judge was somehow perceived as someone who would find fault in everything unless it was perfect.

Now he had arrived, accompanied by Anardil, and when the introductions were over, Milo had taken Goldur to the room reserved and ready upstairs so the Judge could unpack. Anardil had quickly disappeared in search of Sevilodorf.

'_So_,' Camellia thought, _'everything is just as it should be_.'

Then she entered the kitchen and found Meri sat at the table, clearly fighting back tears.

"Whatever's the matter? Lord Goldur seems a nice man, plump and cheerful as a hobbit. You're not still worried that he might have preferred the green curtains, are you? I'm sure he'll like the blue ones."

Meri struggled with her emotions for a moment, shifting her pursed lips into an alarming variety of shapes. Then she sniffed twice and declared, "But that's just it! He does seem very hobbit-like. And what do hobbits want of a morning?"

Frowning at such a silly question, Camellia shrugged. "Breakfast of course, then second breakfast, and looking at the size of him, maybe third breakfast."

Meri ran a tiny hand through her hair distractedly, leaving the golden curls tousled. "And what is the most important thing to have for breakfast, first, second or third?"

Almost cross-eyed in her attempt to follow the conversation, Camellia blurted out, "Eggs. Fried or scrambled, poached or boiled."

At this, Meri dropped her head into her hands and sobbed pitifully.

Camellia's bottom lip started to tremble in sympathy. "Please, Meri, tell me what the matter is."

Meri's muffled, tear-soaked voice replied, "Lugbac went into the hen hutch."

"Did he? Why?"

Sniff. "To see if there were any chicks."

"Why?"

"He likes chicks. He thinks they are _'reet cute_'." Meri lifted her head, a measure of anger replacing her misery.

"I think so too," Camellia admitted.

Pushing herself up from the chair, Meri's eyes narrowed. "Yes, they are, and you and I can go look at them without any problem. But a lumping great orc squeezing himself in amongst the hens scared them almost out of their feathers. They'll not lay another egg for a month of Sundays."

Camellia's mouth formed a little o as she fully realised the problem, then she promptly broke into tears too.

xxx

Standing on the porch of the Troll while Aerio explained that Sev was off somewhere to the north harvesting herbs, Anardil felt a disturbing sensation of time repeating itself. He had spent the long miles from Emyn Arnen looking forward to a reunion with Sevilodorf, and now she was not here when he arrived. Just as had happened six weeks earlier, when Darien and his orc hunters so abruptly entered their lives. His stomach tightened at the memory of an avalanche of mud and rock, and from the sudden halting of the elf's voice, something must have shown on his face.

"She is well guarded. Belegalda accompanies her," Aerio said reassuringly. "They are certain to return shortly."

Celebsul rose from a bench by the door. In an understanding tone he said, "Perhaps you would care to ride out to find her. The field they planned to harvest is a short distance north of the lightning oak. We can be there in less than an hour."

Anardil nodded his thanks to the silver haired elf. "If someone would not mind showing me the way, I would greatly appreciate it."

"I'll meet you in the barn in a few minutes then. Aerio will saddle one of the Ranger mounts for you."

To his credit, Aerio agreed to this request after only a moment's hesitation, and hurried away to do his master's bidding.

Rubbing the back of his neck self consciously, Anardil said, "It may seem silly, but…"

Celebsul shook his head. "Not at all. After what happened in Henneth Annûn, you wish to see for yourself that Sev is whole and well. It is understandable."

"Little about this whole situation is understandable," Anardil remarked with a sigh. "From what I have heard, I feel there are several pieces of the puzzle missing. Pieces that I mean to discover if I can."

Lifting an eyebrow, Celebsul asked, "And what will you do with those pieces once you find them?"

The man's face grew hard as he said coldly, "Ensure that those who are truly responsible pay their debts to me and mine in full."

"There has been much fruitless speculation and investigation already. It is possible that you will never find all the pieces," the elf explained.

Anardil's mouth curved in a feral grin but his eyes remained ice. "In this quest, you will find I have the patience of an elf and the tenacity of a dwarf. Besides, have you not heard…revenge is a dish best served cold?" Giving the elf a small, oddly brittle bow, he picked up his saddle pack and said, "I will meet you in the barn."

xxx

Rubbing sage onto Lugbac's rapidly swelling fingers, Sev murmured a brief rhyme, "Sage helps the nerves and by its powerful might; palsy is cured and fever put to flight."

'_Works a treat on sprains too_,' she added silently and flexed her left wrist gently.

There was still a tinge of pain when she lifted heavy objects; however, after being the recipient of countless hobbit lectures about taking better care of herself, she had grown exceedingly careful not to let any sign of discomfort show. Nonetheless, she had accepted the suggestion of Belegalda, their elvish healer, to wear the bloodstone bracelet Anardil had given her. Personally, she placed more trust in the herbal remedies of sage, comfrey and thyme, but there was a warmth that came from the stone. Neither could she deny that she felt calmer when wearing the curved silver band, whose slender arms resembled twining vines. Whether that was due to any intrinsic healing properties of the stone or simply because it reminded her of Anardil, she could not say. In any course, it delighted Lugbac to see her wear it.

For what was perhaps the fourth time that day, the orc gave a wide grin and reached a grimy finger out toward the stone gleaming softly in its silver setting.

"It's a good un. Ah finds good stowans."

Sev nodded and patted the orc's shoulder kindly. "Yes, you do. So would you please stick to picking up stones, and leave the plants to me?"

Lugbac ducked his head in embarrassment, for he was under orders from Gubbitch not to pick plants. When he and Jabot had discovered Sev gathering foliage for spring tonics in a field a few miles north of the Troll, the large orc had insisted that he would help. At first, he had been content to simply carry her baskets. But taking note of how easily she stripped the tender tops from the nettles, he decided he could do it as well.

"At the very least, put on some gloves," the Rohirrim healer added. In demonstration she tugged on her own well worn pair, before stepping away and returning to the task of gathering the nutritious, if prickly, plant.

"Don't 'ave any," Lugbac said morosely, rubbing his swollen fingers together.

"Maybe you can trade for a pair next time I take a load of stones to Henneth Annûn," Sev replied, gloved fingers once again at their work.

"But ah wants to 'elp now." The orc's face twisted into a stubborn expression.

Her hands continued moving in a rhythm she had learned in girlhood, breaking off handfuls of the heart shaped nettle leaves and dropping them into the basket she pushed along with her feet. "You are helping. Saves me a lot of time when you carry the baskets back and forth."

Lugbac looked across the meadow to where Sev's new horse, Biscuit, stood dreaming in the sun. A small pile of greenery served as evidence of his assistance so far, but he wanted to do more.

"Perhaps he could harvest dandelions or chickweed, they don't bite," called an amused voice.

Across the small field a tall elf stood with a basket half filled with the same plants, his grace of being oddly matched by his unlovely companion, the spiky haired orc, Jabot.

"An excellent suggestion," Sev said with relief. "How about it, Lugbac? Belegalda will show you what they look like. It really would be most helpful. And in return, I'll make up a quart of spring tonic tomorrow for you to take back to Gubbitch and the other lads."

Lugbac shook his head, and Jabot grimaced with distaste.

"Last un didn't taste good."

"True," said Sev. "That one was because you ate that spoiled meat. This one will taste better. I'll even put some of Russ' honey in to sweeten it."

Lugbac brightened. He did like honey. "All reet. Dandelions and chickweed. Tha promise they don't bite? Meri's chickens bit me."

"That's because tha were in their 'utch, tha great lummox," said Jabot giving Lugbac a swift punch in the arm.

"Just wanted to see if baby chicks 'ad come out yet."

Sev muffled her laugh while the two orcs trailed away after the elven healer. Their ungainly forms kept pace with Belegalda's smooth stride, and as their voices faded, she sighed, grateful for the few moments of solitude their task would allow her. In her wandering days after the war she had grown use to keeping her own company, and the constant necessity for a companion was wearing on her nerves. But in spite of her independent streak, she was not a fool and accepted the requirement for armed escorts with a mildness that had Ranger Captain Halbarad eyeing her with concern.

Tossing another handful of nettles into the basket, Sev reluctantly accepted the fact that the restrictions would continue for some time. The hearing before the Grand Council was set for the next Gondorian high day, Tuilérë, but no matter the outcome, it was certain to be several months before it was deemed safe enough for anyone to travel alone through Northern Ithilien. Even their little local band of tame orcs traveled in pairs these days, a fact the hobbits constantly pointed out to her. The judge that Faramir had appointed to the case was due to arrive at the Troll within the next few days to finalize matters with Darien; no doubt he would have an escort as well.

Standing upright to twist away the ache in her lower back, she wondered if the setting of the date to hear Darien's petition had delayed or hastened the Council's discussion of the possible problems on the Eastern borders. In his last letter, dated nigh on a week ago, Anardil had seemed resigned to spending at least another fortnight in Minas Tirith awaiting the pleasure of the Council.

A smile quirked her lips at remembrance of her first message from him after the attack. She had written out assurances to both Anardil and her cousin, Esiwmas, of her well being and received promises from Captain Tarannon and Alfgard that the missives would be delivered as soon as possible. True to their word the men had included her notes, along with detailed reports concerning the attack.

When placed alongside an account of twenty dead orcs and an itemization of every injury suffered, her simple "I am fine. Do not worry" had resulted in the simultaneous dispatch of Gilrad, the not-so-secret Royal messenger, and Conrich, a member of Esiwmas' household, directly to The Burping Troll. Kerwin and Aerio later spent a few happy moments calculating that no more than three hours would have passed between the time Anardil and Esiwmas read her letters and the departure of the two messengers.

Bone weary, they had arrived at the Troll approaching midnight on the fifth and made the strategic error of going directly to knock on the door of Sev's private room. If Gilrad had thought poorly of the Troll's hospitality after dealing with the hobbits over-zealous welcome, finding himself held at arrow-point by a pair of elves had certainly not improved his opinion. After Sev convinced Gambesul and Aerio that she did indeed recognize the men, Conrich hastily assured himself that she was unharmed, then wisely chose to accept a bed at the inn. He thus left Gilrad to explain the particulars of their nocturnal appearance to the two Rangers who appeared shortly after the elves.

Thereafter Bob and Halbarad bit back smiles, as Sev was forced to write a much more detailed letter to Anardil, under the steely-eyed gaze of the King's Man, Gilrad. Bob had found the situation of special amusement and indulged in a round of speculation as to how many favors Anardil and Esiwmas had called in. Halbarad simply said that he understood exactly how they felt and applauded their initiative.

Tucking Sev's completed note into his pocket, Gilrad eyed the bandage on her arm carefully and said, "You are certain it is merely a sprain? I would not like to be put in the position of telling a falsehood."

"I am certain," Sev replied firmly.

Gilrad had stared down at the Rohirrim lady pensively. "Besides the letter which I have delivered to you, I was directed to ask you a question. I did not understand it at the moment, but I do now."

Lifting a hand to smooth her sleep-tangled hair, Sevilodorf raised her chin and met his eyes expectantly.

"I was told to ask if you would prefer the traditional round shield of Rohan, or one similar to that carried by the Guards of the City?"

As Bob shook with smothered laughter and the others hid their grins with varying degrees of success, Sev replied dryly, "You may inform both Anardil and Esiwmas that I will leave that detail in their capable hands."

Now, as she bent again to pluck more nettles, she wondered what she would do with a shield if Anardil brought one to her? Her arm ached at the very thought. Maybe she should just try to convince him that she would stay quietly at home. No, he'd never believe that.

They arrived silently, as only an elf and a former Ranger could. And the cold fist that had held Anardil's heart since he first read Tarannon's report loosened its grasp at the sight of Sevilodorf moving slowly through a spring green field.

Anardil halted his horse at the edge of the tree line, Celebsul beside him. Aware now that his humour had perhaps fallen short of courtesy, Anardil cast the elf a troubled glance.

"Master Celebsul -."

But a smile touched the elf's timeless eyes and he simply inclined his head towards the meadow. "Go. She waits for you."

With an answering grin Anardil urged his horse forward, and in seconds dismounted beside the ugly old horse that cropped the meadow's edge. The animal stared haughtily down its long, pinkish nose at him, ears briefly pinning back in warning, but the one-armed man merely chuckled. From his pocket he drew a small heel of bread, the remnants of a lunch eaten in the saddle hours before.

"You old rascal," he murmured, as rubbery lips plucked the offering from his palm. Yet glad though he was that Sev had regained a faithful friend in Biscuit, he grieved that the loss of gentle Dream had been the exchange.

Then he looked up and Sev was staring at him, and if it were possible for him to grin any wider he might have dislocated both ears. She recovered from her surprise instantly, as of course she would, walking now towards him with a firm pace. Her chin lifted as she drew near and a small furrow appeared between her brows as his foolish smile remained firmly in place.

"Well," she said, halting before him. "If you're going to lecture me about being alone, I assure you that Belegalda probably heard you coming twenty minutes ago, and Lugbac and Jabot are close by."

"Actually…" He raised his hand to brush his knuckles softly down her cheek. "I was going to tell you how pretty you are. And how much I've missed you."

The look on her face was worth everything, as she came into his embrace and he held her warm softness close against him. Her hair smelt of some clean herb, and her arms wrapped about him with strength that surprised him. Aye, her letters had told the bare facts of the attack that nearly cost her life, but what fell between the lines remained unspoken and painful. Softly he kissed her and only then drew back just enough to look down at her face. The blue March sky seemed mirrored in her shining eyes.

"And I might also add," he continued with an impish grin, "how singularly odd it is to hear you have both orcs and elves as your guardian companions."

Sev snorted quietly. "And a warg is not odd?"

"Hmm, true. Actually, I owe Warg." Anardil's expression softened to sobriety and he tightened his arm around her. "I owe her a very great deal."

Shadow flickered in Sev's eyes and she looked down. "Let us not speak of that now. I just want to be glad you're home."

"So it shall be, _meleth nín_." He bent to press a kiss to her hair. "For I find I am lonesome for your presence and the peace of being home, and even the mothering of our hobbits."

Sev gave an unbidden if brief laugh as she met his glance. "Don't let them hear you say that. They'll ply you with enough food to sate your king's entire court."

"And that, lady, is my lord's one great flaw." Grey eyes twinkled down at her. "He has yet to succeed in hiring a proper hobbit cook."

They laughed quietly together and as if by magic Belegalda appeared and then Celebsul, with the two orcs slouching a little further from hand. Home, indeed. Anardil looked over Sev's head to meet Lugbac's uncertain, snaggle-toothed grin and Jabot's cheerfully hideous smile. He might never learn to look at them with love, but the simple fact remained that he owed his lady's life to two of their kindred and a warg. Old enemies had become friends … but who the new enemy was remained unseen.

For the moment, however, it was well to listen to friendly voices and to see a smile glowing just for him in Sev's clear blue eyes.

xxx

"What are you doing?" Lord Goldur's cheerful but unexpected voice caused the hobbits to nearly jump out of their skins.

The judge chuckled as three pairs of bright eyes blinked guiltily up at him. "I heard the singing from my room. It sounded delightful, but I didn't expect to find the choir in a chicken run. Is there any particular reason why you're serenading hens?"

Meri and Camellia both stared hard at Milo. It was his idea. Let him explain. The hobbit lad twisted his mouth to one side as he struggled to find a way of explaining that wouldn't make him sound criminally insane.

"Well … the hens have stopped laying, after ..." Milo paused. Never mind the details, he thought. "The hens have stopped laying, so we thought if we soothed them with a song, they might start again."

"Mm," Goldur considered this. "Does it normally succeed?"

"It's the first time we've tried," Camellia admitted.

Grinning, the stout lord quipped, "It seems a sound theory, if you'll forgive the pun."

This took a moment to sink in, but the three hobbits eventually giggled. They had not expected a judge to be so jovial.

Now much more relaxed, Meri explained, "We were afraid that there would not be enough fresh eggs for your breakfasts."

"Oh, you shouldn't have worried about me." Goldur smiled kindly. "I'm afraid I have to admit to something that you hobbits will find outrageous."

The three pairs of eyes widened in anticipation. A judge was going to admit something of immense proportions to them. That didn't happen every day.

"You see," Goldur continued. "I never eat eggs. They make me nauseous."

Turning his attention to Milo, the judge asked, "Young sir, could you possible direct me to wherever Lord Darien is working."

Meri and Camellia watched as the man and hobbit lad left. When they were out of sight, Meri exclaimed, "He never eats eggs!"

Shaking her head in disbelief, Camellia commented wryly, "Big People can be very odd."

xxx

TBC ...


	20. Chapter 20

(_Special thanks to Tuima for being our faithful reviewer! Bless you for your kindness and constancy!_)

**Chapter Twenty  
**_19th March  
__Northern Ithilien_

Morning dawned dimly through low cloud and grey drizzle, not the most cheerful of weather, Erin mused as she gazed through the kitchen window; winter was loath to depart, a surly guest who had overstayed his welcome.

The same could not be said of Lord Goldur who consumed a hearty egg-less breakfast, telling the hobbit lasses that it, and the supper of the night before, were the best meals that he had ever eaten. The glow of his compliment warmed Erin despite the cool drafts that crept like invisible snakes beneath the kitchen door, sliding chillily against her ankles.

Her worries were gradually eased as she had watched the stout judge meeting and chatting with people yesterday evening, making it quite clear that his real work would not begin until today. And adding that when it did, he had no intentions of interrogating anyone. The idea of the plump, ruddy-cheeked man as an inquisitor brought a smile to the hobbit's face. She knew that some of the folk of the inn were to be called as witnesses. If all that meant was answering questions for the likes of Lord Goldur, well, she would be able to cope with that.

The kettle finally came to the boil, singing steamily. As she made a fresh pot of tea, Erin whistled the tune it reminded her of: one that her father used to sing. Still whistling, she carried a tray out into the common room and set the pot and a clean mug before the judge.

"Thank you, Erin," Goldur said, grinning as the hobbit lass collected up his empty plates. "I do like to see happy faces first thing in a morning. Maybe I'll make this my permanent residence."

"And I like to see empty plates," Erin responded with a grin of her own. "So maybe we'll let you move in. Can I get you some more food: toast and jam, another bowl of porridge, perhaps?"

"Oh no, thank you. The tea will finish it off nicely. I think I'd better not move in after all, not unless I want to grow even rounder."

xxx

Goldur spent the rest of the morning with Darien, Kerwin and Aerio. He had warmly approved of the arrangements he witnessed the day before, congratulating the young man and elf for the impressive order they had imposed upon the accumulated mass of documentation. Now the four were working in earnest, the system proved its value. Darien outlined a series of cases, the judge queried these from various angles, and Kerwin reached instantly to extract the relevant documents. Aerio merely leant back in his chair and smirked; only occasionally did he need to reach down to retrieve a paper that had slipped inexplicably from Kerwin's hand.

When the aroma of lunch crept into the room where they worked, Goldur suggested the paperwork could be put away until the next day. He intended to spend the afternoon talking to those likely to be witnesses. This would include Sevilodorf, Erin, Celebsul and, towards evening, Gubbitch the orc leader. The judge explained to Darien that he had enjoyed an interesting series of discussions with the ex-Ranger, Anardil, on the journey to the inn, and intended him to be a witness also.

During lunch, Lord Goldur found he had a rather large doormat beneath the table. His reaction to Warg was as unruffled as his introduction to the balrog had proved.

He looked down into her yellow eyes and apologised, "I'm afraid I don't leave many scraps."

"No, I didn't think you would," she replied, staring pointedly at his rounded tummy. "I don't suppose you will want me to be one of these witless things."

Goldur chuckled merrily, so that his ample belly jiggled. "Witness, I think you mean … or do you?"

"Yeah, witness. I could sort the whole thing out in no time."

"I'm sure you could, but I'm afraid that the presence of orcs in the capital of Gondor will cause considerable … excitement by itself. I don't think they are quite ready to hear testimony from a warg, or a balrog for that matter. But I would be delighted to listen to your advice and use any information you have to offer."

So Warg spent the next half-hour expounding her views and experiences in her usual blunt manner, which on more than one occasion almost had the judge choking on his food, or pausing to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes.

When the time came for Goldur to leave the table, he shook his head in regret. "I wish I could call you as a witness, Mistress Warg, for your common sense and wit would be a breath of fresh air amidst the stuffy legal procedures."

"Well, if you change your mind, just whistle." Then Warg snickered softly to herself and slouched off to find some thinner diners.

xxx

Unlike the hobbits, Sevilodorf welcomed the coolness for her self appointed task of preparing the nettles gathered the previous day. A portion of her harvest had been sautéed with onions and mushrooms last evening for dinner. However, the remainder would have to be boiled to create the spring tonic that she would deliver to Gubbitch's orcs and to the apothecary in Henneth Annûn, after reserving a quantity for use at The Burping Troll. Later in the week she would harvest more of the plant to be dried and stored for future use. Some might go to feed Meri's chickens, perhaps even encourage them to lay again.

Having gotten a late start on the day, due to the beguiling ways of a certain ex-Ranger, she had opted to forage her mid-day meal from the leftovers on the breakfast tray. Thus avoiding the lengthy process of a hobbit lunch, as well as, if she were honest, the Gondorian judge. Avoidance would do little but delay the inevitable, and Sev knew her attitude bordered on the ridiculous. Lord Goldur had been nothing but polite and good humored when he had met the residents of the inn the previous evening. There was no reason to be hiding from the man; yet, here she was.

Moving swiftly about the small stillroom the elves had built for her along the back wall of Elanna's pottery shed, the Rohirrim chopped the nettle tops finely and tossed them into a simmering kettle. Plans had been made for the dwarves to lay a water pipe to the two buildings in the spring though the balrog found it almost as enjoyable to carry cauldrons of water for her as he did to fire up the kiln for Elanna.

As she worked, Sev hummed the tunes her mother had taught her years ago, rhymes that told of the plants and their uses. Belegalda had requested that she write them down but she had yet to manage that. Lists that only she had to decipher were all well and good, but something for others to read took more time than she could find. And expecting anyone to take notes as she sang could be considered torturous.

"I think I know that one," an unexpected voice said. Sev whirled to find the portly judge, Goldur, peeking in the open doorway.

"Excuse me?" Sev exclaimed, before noticing she was pointing a very sharp blade at one of the realm's law lords. Fingers trembling, she set the knife on the worktable.

In a pleasant tenor, Goldur sang softly,

"Whose red and purpled mottled flowers  
are cropped by maids in weeding hours,  
to boil in water, milk, or whey,  
for washes on a holiday;  
to make their beauty fair and sleek,  
and scare the tan from summer's cheek …"

A smile creased his round face as he added, "Those are the words I learned to it anyway." The judge gave a sigh as he leaned against the doorframe and passed a wistful-seeming glance over the twists and bunches of drying herbs that adorned the room. "My goodness, it's been more years than I want to admit since I heard them. Where did you…? Now, that would be a silly question, wouldn't it?"

"Not at all." Sev was not fooled for a moment by the judge's seemingly innocent enquiry. "My mother was of Dunland, and her people cared even less than my father's for the arts of reading and writing. Thus, she taught me plant lore as her mother's mother had taught it to her, with rhyme and rhythm. Our elvish healer, Belegalda, tells me that many of the tunes can be traced back to the times of ancient Numenor. Though the words are different from people to people."

Attempting to turn the tables on the judge, and to halt her suddenly runaway tongue, she said, "But how do you know the words to that particular verse?"

"Sisters, my dear, sisters. In their continual quest for beauty, they would often force their poor younger brother to assist them. My, that was many years ago." Then with a gleam in his eye, the judge said, "Of much more practical use for a young boy was 'Nettle in, dock out. Dock rub nettle out!' "

"I'm certain it was. Though sage is my preference." With an answering gleam and a lift of her chin, Sev asked, "Have you heard this one? 'Tender-handed stroke a nettle, and it stings you for your pains. Grasp it like a man of mettle, and it soft as silk remains'"

Lord Goldur gave a rumbling laugh. "Yes, I have, and I take your meaning. You would prefer that I show my mettle and come directly to the point."

Motioning to the steaming kettle and the mound of nettles still to be sliced, Sev replied, "If you don't mind, or if you prefer we could postpone this discussion until another time?"

Detecting a faint note of hope in her voice, Goldur smiled and stepped into the small room. "I've a better idea. I'll help out with chopping the leaves, that way you will finish sooner and we can talk while we work."

Picking up Sev's slicing knife, the judge grabbed a handful of nettles tightly. "There, see, no sting," he remarked as he placed them on the table.

Sev attempted to chuckle, but it came out as a rather feeble, "Hah ha … hu." She immediately clamped her teeth together.

Without glancing up from his careful chopping, Lord Goldur asked in a matter-of-fact voice, "Who did you murder?"

Head swiveling round, Sev stared at the round, white-haired pate bent over her cutting board in silence, before responding with the first thing that came into her mind. "I suppose that depends on your definition of murder."

"Given the times we'd lived through, I would define murder as killing with premeditated malice."

Sev hesitated before replying, "Then, no one."

"Hm, you don't sound certain." He reached for another handful of nettles.

"What's all this about?" Sev's ire was rising, and she struggled to keep speaking slowly and clearly. "I haven't murdered anyone, or committed any crime that I can think of."

Goldur turned to look at her, his plump features cast in a slightly wounded expression. "Then why are you so wary of me?"

Letting out an audible breath, Sev shook her head at his bluntness. His ability to see to the core of the matter was impressive, if a little frightening. Seeking time to compose herself, she snatched up a wooden spoon and gave the roiling water a splashing stir.

As the judge slid another pile of diced nettles to the end of the worktable, she said, "I'm sorry. It's not you. I just have an aversion to authority and formality … titles and officials."

Goldur grinned, and winked at her. "Me too." But then his expression grew more serious. "Does this mean you don't wish to give evidence at the hearing?"

Putting down the spoon, Sev laced her fingers together and inspected them. "Do I have to?"

"No, I will not enforce any witnesses for the petition."

Sev pulled her hands apart and placed them on the worktop. "Do I need to?"

Goldur briefly touched her shoulder in fatherly sympathy. "That is for you to decide. But if you mean 'is your account important?' then I must tell you that it is. Your experiences give you an almost unique insight into the ways of orcs, both good and evil. But you have suffered a great deal, and I feel obliged to warn you that if you find me intimidating, then being questioned by the opposition will be an ordeal indeed. Take your time to think it over; I'm here for another day or two."

The room fell to silence for a few minutes as the pair prepared nettles and pondered the situation. Then Sev spoke quietly.

"If I can help protect the likes of Gubbitch and Lorgarth, then I would be a coward to turn away."

"You are no coward," the judge said emphatically. "Anardil has made that much very clear."

The flash of sudden pride that Anardil had spoken well of her only partially dispelled the panic she felt at the vision of a room full of stuffy counsellors and nobility. She would almost prefer doing battle with a dozen orcs. But there was another factor involved; she had pledged to Russ the Beorning that she would do whatever was needed to help the Uruk-hai, Nik. Nik had bravely faced a maddened zealot amongst Darien's orc hunters, killing the man and saving Sev's life, and she had vowed to repay that life-debt by seeing that Nik would not suffer for that slaying. She must keep her word. Somehow she must find the strength to do it.

"I will be a witness, Lord Goldur."

"Thank you very much, Mistress Sevilodorf." The judge smiled warmly and his back straightened as if a weight had been lifted from him. "And may I impose a little further to ask your advice on something?"

"Of course. What is it?"

His normally jolly face looked positively mournful. "If you were so concerned about appearing at the Great Council, however will I get a hobbit to agree?"

xxx

Erin came scooting out of the hallway, having taken clean sheets to the laundry room and now intent on banking the fire, when she saw Lord Goldur comfortably seated in one of the hearthside chairs.

"Ah, just the person I wanted to see," he greeted her.

"Oh," was all the hobbit found to say.

Granted, that was not the most polite reply, but she could think of nothing better as she grabbed a large log from the pile and settled it securely amongst the low flames. She scuffed her hands together to remove the wood dust, finally wiping her palms unthinkingly on her pale green skirt.

"Do sit down and join me for a while." Goldur smiled kindly.

Returning his smile, Erin shrugged and turned to scramble onto the sofa. There she settled into a corner, her feet tucked beneath her so they would not stick out over the plump upholstery.

The judge leant forward, his earnest expression announcing the question before his voice. "You know that I'm seeking willing witnesses for the hearing at the end of the month?"

Erin nodded her reply.

"I was wondering if you would consent to be one."

Rubbing her small hand against her chin, Erin frowned for a moment then admitted, "And I wondered if you would ask." The creases in her brow suddenly changed direction. "But why me?"

Goldur sat back in the chair, his head tilting slightly. "Well, I must admit that my main reason is because you're a hobbit. I would want as many of the peoples of this realm, as possible, represented on our side."

Erin's head tilted to the same angle on the opposite side. "But there are other hobbits: Meri, Camellia, Milo …"

"Ah!" The judge raised one finger of the hand settled on the armrest. "But you have been attacked by orcs as well as befriended by them. The latter is rare enough; the former is, as far as this inn is concerned, unique; if my sources are accurate. And my sources also say that you are well-travelled for a hobbit lady and have encountered many … difficult situations."

"Oh-oo, yes," Erin blurted with a quick grin then she composed her face. "If you think I can help win rights for my orc friends, I'll be happy to answer your questions at the hearing."

Lord Goldur closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath. "Mistress Erin, I have to warn you that it will not only be my questions you will have to answer. I am proposing the petition; someone else will be opposing it. He will wish to make your evidence sound unconvincing."

"But if I answer truthfully, surely nothing else matters?"

"Of course not." Goldur leant forward again. "But he may try to make you sound simple, or too trusting, or anything that will discredit your words."

Erin sat up, bringing herself to a kneeling position, her expression indignant. "Is this 'opponent' a nasty man?"

"No, not really. It is just his job. I will also be expected to delve deeply into his witnesses' evidence and motivations."

The hobbit's eyes widened alarmingly. After a moment's pause, she slumped back into her earlier repose on the sofa.

"It's a game!" she uttered in a mix of weariness and disgust.

"Let me explain a little more, Erin. If one did not challenge what witnesses claimed or believed then a person who was lying or unreasonably biased would have as much credence given to their words as someone of good intent telling the truth. There must have been times when you have met people and not known whether they were trustworthy."

Erin thought for a while. Most of the strangers she encountered nowadays were guests at The Burping Troll or folk in Henneth Annûn. Musing on her recent visits to the town, she recollected that Kerwin was a stranger not so long ago, but she had felt she could trust him. The drunken men who insulted Sevi were strangers, and she had been certain that they could not be trusted. But then there was the thin dandy man outside the tinsmith's shop, the one who kept calling her 'my dear'. Erin really hadn't known what to make of him. She wondered if the kinds of question that a judge might pose could reveal the inner nature of someone as unreadable yet disconcerting as the dandy man.

"So the hearing will show who is telling the truth?" the hobbit finally asked.

"It will attempt to." Goldur shrugged. "Though we are only men, not mind-readers. I just wanted to stress that whatever is said to you as a witness, don't allow anyone to make you doubt yourself or undermine your confidence."

Erin chewed at her lip briefly then straightened her back. "A war of words is it? Well, I've faced worse than that."

Lord Goldur looked at the glint in the eyes that adorned that round little face and chuckled deeply. "Yes, my dear, I would not be surprised if you have."

"Oh!" Erin's face brightened immediately. "Did you hear about the time Aerio told me about a magic pool, and I went looking for it and got lost? Now, Meri - she's my bestest friend - Meri says I have too many adventures for a hobbit and I promised her I'd only have very little ones from now on, but this was actually a funny adventure, not a scary one. You see, Aerio is an elf and he's very clever and sometimes he even fools me. Well, one day -."

Smiling contentedly, one of the realm's highest counsellors of law settled back to listen to a whimsical hobbit tale. Despite being burdened with matters of greater import, when simpler pleasures could be found, he had long since learned to embrace them.

xxx

It was after the evening meal, as usual, when Gubbitch entered the inn. Lord Goldur looked up from where he sat at a table alongside Celebsul. He had been reassuring the elf that giving his opinion as a witness would not be seen as interference in the matters of men. The judge's eyebrows rose as the orc loped across the common room towards them, exchanging greetings with residents and regulars alike. As macabre as that crooked and misshapen form appeared, jarringly so, given Goldur's close scrutiny of elven grace, it was evident that Gubbitch held the goodwill of all.

With a smile like a broken cartwheel, the orc hailed Celebsul then turned towards the table's other occupant. Recalling the manners he'd acquired for his meeting with Prince Faramir and Princess Eowyn at the wedding of Halbarad and Elanna, Gubbitch nodded politely at the man.

"Pleased ter meet thee. Tha's Lord Goldur, ain't tha?"

"Aye, I am he. Please join us, Master Gubbitch." The judge gestured to a vacant chair.

Hauling his bent body onto the seat, Gubbitch asked, "'as tha talked to orcs before?"

A direct approach deserved a direct response, and Goldur met those yellow eyes squarely. "Indeed I have, though none with such a distinguished reputation as yourself. The few that I've met face-to-face were either rather savage or stupid, I have to admit."

"Aye." Gubbitch nodded his scarred head sagely. "That's the way o' most o' 'em. Most need a leader, otherwise they don't know what ter do with thesens. If they've got a leader, they'll do what they're told: be it fight wars or pick daisies. It don't matter which to most."

"But it matters to you," Goldur observed.

"The thing abaht fighting is that it's not just life-threatening, it's also ruddy boring; after a very long lifetime of it, ah fancied a change." Setting his clawed hands on the table edge, Gubbitch's gaze held that queer intelligence steadily. "We 'ad no choice until war were over, now we do. Ah likes 'avin' freedom and friends. Me lads are good company fer most part, but not very … stimulatin'. There's few of us old 'uns left, so if ah wants someone worth chinwaggin' wi', ah comes 'ere. Does tha play cribbage?"

Goldur blinked at the sudden swerve in the orc's conversation. "Yes, I do. Shall we play while we talk?"

At Gubbitch's colourful grin, Celebsul stood, "I'll get the board and a fresh round of drinks." The elf paused beside the judge. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into. Wager small amounts."

It proved a well-matched contest, both in terms of the game and the question-and-answer session that proceeded smoothly above it. When Gubbitch called it a day, he was just slightly the richer: enough to buy a final round.

As they sipped the remnants of their ale, Goldur remarked, "Your testimony will be invaluable, Master Gubbitch. I might keep you as the last witness."

The orc replied impassively, "Aye, wait and see how things go. If they're lookin' good, keep me 'idden, if they're lookin' 'opeless, risk 'avin' me put me foot in it."

As the judge opened his mouth to reply, Gubbitch winked. "Just jokin'. If ah were givin' out reets, ah'd want a good long look at who ah were givin' 'em to."

Lord Goldur nodded. "Yes, indeed. I want them to take a good long look at the likes of yourself and Lorgarth then decide the fate of the petition accordingly." With a wry smile he added, "Most would not believe the conversation we just had was possible, unless they heard it themselves."

Gubbitch cackled merrily, his multi-chromatic teeth bared in glee. "An' none of me old mates 'd believe ah just shouted a round fer a king's man an' a elf."

Chuckling together, the judge and the orc saluted each other with their tankards in complete understanding.

xxx

TBC ...


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

_21st March  
__Northern Ithilien_

Meri watched with dismay as a pool of red ink spread across the recently scrubbed floor of The Burping Troll's kitchen. At her side, Erin drew herself up to her full three feet and four inches of height and exclaimed, "Not again! That's the second time today, Kerwin."

Kerwin bent over to pick up the overturned inkbottle. Unfortunately, this movement dislodged the bundle of documents he had tucked under his arm. In a papery avalanche the whole lot dropped into the puddle with a splash, splattering both the hobbits and the freshly ironed table linens in the basket at their feet.

His wide brown eyes became huge as he froze, half-bent in place, eyeing the inky carnage. "Oh, my. I am s-sorry. Terribly sorry. Truly. I didn't -. Let me help you."

Erin pushed Kerwin's hand aside as he reached his ink stained fingers toward the basket. "No. No, thank you."

"We'll manage, Kerwin." Stepping carefully around the largest blobs, Meri gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Just retrieve your papers and go get yourself cleaned up. I hope nothing was ruined."

Erin muttered, "Besides another set of laundry?"

Meri gave Erin a stern glance as the thin youth visibly swallowed and began stuttering apologies.

Pursing her lips, Erin said, "Never mind, Kerwin. You didn't mean to do it. Let us help you with the papers."

The two hobbits darted into the pantry and brought back a pile of clean rags. In a matter of seconds, they had bundled both Kerwin and his sodden papers out the back door and shut it with the firm statement that he was to go see to salvaging his files and cleaning up before dinner while they took care of the kitchen.

For a moment, the lanky figure stared at the door in bewilderment. Then with shoulders sagging he made his way to Celebsul's workshop in hopes of finding something to remove the ink. Gambesul had been working on creating an, as Aerio termed it, "efficient" ink remover that did not remove skin as well.

"Again?"

Kerwin winced and nodded as Warg rose up from her sunny spot outside the workshop door. He watched with his usual fascination as the great lupine creature stretched languorously and shook herself. The air was suddenly filled with green tinged fur, and both warg and man sneezed loudly three times.

Waving off the floating hairs, Kerwin began another apology. Warg fixed him with her copper eyes and growled, "Cub, you just need to grow into those feet of yours. And it was my own fault that I'm temporarily green. Anyone with any sense at all would have avoided you, Lugbac and a kettle of boiling nettles like the plague."

"Yes, ma'am." He still was wary of his manners around a calf-sized talking wolf.

"Anyway, makes for good cover in the grass." Warg grinned toothily. "Those rabbits don't stand a chance now. Excuse me, got a date with an elf to go round up a few of those little furballs."

As Warg slipped into the trees behind the Troll, Kerwin realized that the bundle of ink-drenched papers he clutched was soaking through the rags the hobbits had wrapped around it and was beginning to drip down his leg. This was turning out to be one of those days when nothing went right.

"My word." Lord Goldur exclaimed, approaching from the rear of the inn. "Are you injured?"

"Wha… oh no, sir." As he glanced down at his stained trousers, Kerwin's high cheekbones flushed pink. "Not at all, sir. Really. It's ink, not blood."

"That's a relief to hear." The judge smiled cheerfully. "I was hoping to have a word with you and Aerio. Would now be convenient?"

As he clutched his dripping crimson mess tighter, Kerwin's eyes widened in alarm. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no. In fact, quite the opposite."

"Did someone mention my name?" Aerio stepped out of the workshop then noticed the stains on Kerwin's clothes. "Ah, an ideal opportunity to try Gambesul's latest ink-remover."

The elf swept a graceful hand of invitation towards the workshop door, and the two men made their way inside.

Within a matter of minutes, Aerio had stowed the ruined papers in a suitable container and completed the application, in situ, of a clear substance to Kerwin's tunic and leggings. All three now stared in curiosity at the treated stains.

As nothing obvious was happening, Aerio asked, "Did you want something in particular, Lord Goldur?"

"Yes, two things actually." Goldur's plump face immediately assumed its habitual rounded lines of cheer. "I wanted to congratulate you both again on the excellent work of organization that you've done on the collected evidence. It has saved me a lot of time and trouble …"

The judge paused as he noticed a change taking place on Kerwin's tunic. "The red appears to be fading."

"Thank you for the compliment," Aerio said as he too stared at the cloth's slow transformation. "We both enjoyed the task immensely." Looking away from the impending disaster, the elf asked, "Didn't we Kerwin?"

That was sufficient to divert the young man's attention for a moment. "Er … Yes. Of course. Yes, we did."

Silence ensued as patches of Kerwin's clothes mutated from bright scarlet to pure white. Given that the tunic was otherwise dark green and the untreated areas of legging, black, the contrast was very striking.

Aerio crouched and pulled at a bleached section of cloth at Kerwin's thigh. "The material seems undamaged." He then stood and inspected a sleeve. "Yes. It is just as thick as before."

"But it's white!" The young man did not seem consoled.

"May I make a suggestion?" Goldur intervened. "If you have further inventions to try out, why not use a scrap of cloth as a test piece. However, given that such an option is obsolete in the current situation, you could apply the offending liquid throughout the garments; they will at least look consistent."

"Excellent ideas," Aerio remarked, reaching for the bottle containing Gambesul's ink-remover.

Kerwin took a step backwards. "But I don't - truly I don't want to wear white. It is simply not - not s- s- serviceable."

"I'm already ahead of you." Aerio smirked broadly at his friend. "We make the cloth all white, then we colour it with dye."

Lord Goldur scratched his chin. "Hm, well, if you don't mind, I think I'll leave you two to work out the best way to proceed, but may I first ask a favour."

Having gained the full attention of the young man and elf, Goldur continued, "I would like you both to come to Minas Tirith by the 29th to help with final preparations. You will be paid for your services, of course, and suitable accommodation will be provided."

From under raised brows, Aerio and Kerwin looked at each other, then back towards the judge.

"It would be an honour." Aerio swept a small bow.

"Indeed," Kerwin agreed, and pressed an earnest hand to his newly-speckled breast.

After a quick discussion of the arrangements, Goldur left the pair to their dilemma. As he walked away from the workshop, he could hear a debate beginning about suitable dyes.

Aerio's clear elven voice drifted out into the air. "Ink would be the obvious solution."

xxx

_22nd March  
__Henneth Annûn_

The tightly corseted waitress placed Anardil's mug of ale onto the battered surface of the table with a smile that was certainly more honest than any he had yet to receive from Sira at The Whistling Dog. Giving her a nod of thanks he turned to his table companion and shrugged to a more comfortable position. Between his dark hair slicked back into a tight queue, a perpetual scowl and an affected slouch, he little seemed the stalwart former Ranger his friends knew, but playing roles was after all his stock in trade.

In the broad, slow accents of a riverman he said, "Don't know if I like that or not. Doesn't seem right somehow."

"Well now, you've got to look at it from the right perspective, so to speak." Drath waved a meaty hand toward the doorway into the kitchen where Corbat was carrying a large tray of crockery with exaggerated care. "They're beasts. Born and bred to work, why shouldn't we use 'em that way? If you train 'em properly, they can do most of the scut work that needs to be done. Only drawback is they just aren't that smart."

Remembrance flitted through Anardil's mind of Gubbitch's gnarled form bent over a cribbage board, in a pose matched exactly if more gracefully by Celebsul, an elf older than any mortal could begin to comprehend. That the old orc very cleverly won his share of their wagers was a fact that inspired Anardil to quench his thoughts in another swig of ale.

"They've enough brains to wield a sword," the ex-Ranger said brusquely, setting his mug down with a splash and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Drath eyed the stranger's empty sleeve and nodded. "That's a fact. But the one's with any fight in them don't come around men. And those that do…well, they're used to obeying orders and want someone to tell 'em what to do. Once you make sure they know you're boss they jump right quick when you holler."

Anardil shook his head slowly. "Gives me shivers down my spine to think of those monsters living alongside regular folks."

Drath gave a booming laugh. "Don't go that far. Least not around here we don't. My bunch live out back in some sheds they put together."

"Still…" Anardil's allowed his voice to trail off as another orc emerged from the kitchen.

This creature, taller than the first, moved quickly to respond to the raucous calls of a group of five men near the smoky hearth. Dressed in a plain white shirt and dark leggings that showed signs of careful mending, he appeared, if one disregarded his misshapen features, no different from many a bartender.

"Matter of fact, that one over there helped save a group of people from an attack by some of the last vicious ones around here."

Adopting an appropriately skeptical look as Drath went on to recount a tale of the attack on Sev and Darien's party, Anardil silently applauded the man's ability to twist the facts to create an image of the orcs as heros while being careful not to label them bloodthirsty killers. A man open to every opportunity to increase his profits was how Tarannon had labeled Drath; thus far, The Black Cauldron's owner had more than lived up to that reputation. However, there appeared no evidence of any kind that he was in any way involved in ordering the attack.

When he had done, Drath sat back with a greasy grin that spoke greatly of unsavory ambition, yet nothing of sympathy for the victims of the orc attack. His only concern was that he could turn a profit from the fact that it had been "his" orcs that saved the day.

"Not the brightest lamps," the innkeeper finished. "But right doughty in a pinch. Right doughty."

He seemed pleased with that word, and Anardil allowed his lack of appreciation to be misinterpreted.

"Still and all," Anardil said, "not something I'd be countin' on. Orcs is orcs, even if they do wear a Man's trousers."

After Drath excused himself to tend his duties at the bar, Anardil settled back in his corner to watch the patrons of the tavern. He had discovered little thus far to lend credence to his nagging feeling that several pieces of information were missing. Was it, as Tarannon and others had suggested, just a random attack by a group of orcs recently forced out of the upper reaches of the Ephel Dúath by hunger? The trail, as far as it could be followed, had led only to the barren heights.

Sev had met his initial suspicions that the son of Farmer Tiroc had somehow been involved with disdain. Though less vehement in his declarations, Lord Darien had agreed with her judgement of Cullen's character.

"Kerwin's story about the drunks outside The Whistling Dog shows he's been spreading rumors, and our encounter the night before the attack supports the idea that he can't hold his liquor well. But I just don't see the boy commissioning a group of orcs to attack."

Upon meeting the youth this afternoon, when Lord Goldur had called in the father and his son to discuss their testimony, Anardil had been forced to agree with Darien and Sev in their assessment of Cullen. A follower. A blank slate for someone else to write upon. But blast it all, it was simply too much of a coincidence that the two people most vocal in orcs' rights had been attacked by a wandering band of orcs outside a community that had no previous problems with the creatures. Something must have compelled them - or perhaps goaded them - to take such a risk in the very shadow of the Ithilien Rangers' headquarters.

Having left Judge Goldur in a private room at The Whistling Dog to complete the interviews of those he planned to call as witnesses, Anardil had taken on the persona of a riverman now bereft of his livelihood by the loss of his arm and wandering the road. He had drifted about town drawing no attention to himself; watching and listening in an attempt to find something which would either confirm his suspicions or dispel them completely; he had found nothing.

And the feeling of something missing persisted.

Swallowing the last of the ale resolutely, Anardil pushed his mug to the center of the table and settled two copper coins at its side. The waitress' smile would fade slightly at the miserly tip, but an out of work riverman would have few coins to distribute. As he stood to leave, he affected the slight hesitation of a man who had had one ale too many.

It was due only to growing accustomed to the hobbits' disconcerting habit of appearing silently at his elbow that he did not leap straight out of his skin as a guttural voice said, "Let me help yer to the door, sir."

The orc's yellow eyes held a strange hint of amusement as Anardil jerked back as if burnt by his touch. Eyes shifting toward Drath, the orc said loudly, "Sorry to startle yer, sir." Then in the barest of whispers he added, "Out back, ten minutes."

"Lorgarth, leave the man alone," bellowed Drath from behind the bar. "He ain't used to your kind. Just get on back to what you were doing. Tess'll see to him."

As the blond woman replaced the orc who shambled off to collect the empty mugs from a table, Anardil allowed himself to be led to the door. There he managed to thank the girl for her suggestion about the rooming house down the road.

Settling into the shadows of a tree perched precariously on the riverbank he berated himself for ignoring the most obvious sources of information. He had chided Hal for not making good use of all of his resources, only to become guilty as well.

"Ah, Sevi, you were right," he murmured.

In a moment of pique she had declared that Rangers had a blind spot when it came to believing and trusting the words of the common folk. He had thought that he had overcome his prejudices during the last two years, but it now seemed he must expand his definition of "common folk" to include orcs.

The backdoor of The Black Cauldron opened with the squeal of rusty hinges and silhouetted in the doorway was the taller of the two orcs Anardil had seen in the tavern's common room. Pulling the door shut, the creature took two steps into the darkness, head swiveling in a careful assessment of the shadows. His eyes reflected the starlight as he focused his attention on the very spot where Anardil sat.

Fingers twitching with the desire to draw his knife, the ex-Ranger watched the orc shuffle towards him.

"If'n I wanted to kill yer, yer'd be dead already." Though spoken in soft tones there was no disguising the harshness of the voice.

"True enough," Anardil responded, placing his hand palm up in plain sight. "As it appears you do not want to kill me, what do you want?"

Lorgarth gave a rueful, malformed grin. "Me. I want nothin'. Except to be left alone."

Raising an eyebrow, the man asked, "Then why invite me to a meeting?"

Chuckling softly, the orc replied, "Because yer want somethin' from me. At least, the man carryin' the scents of both warg and elf should be wantin' something. And yer won't be finding it by visitin' the 'good' people of Henneth Annûn."

Ignoring the implications that he had been followed during the afternoon, Anardil said, "So what should I be wanting from you?"

"What I don't have," the orc replied enigmatically. "Answers to the questions that Ranger Captain Tarannon asked everyone but me and Corbat."

"If you don't have the answers, it would seem that I would be wasting my time to ask."

"Answers I don't have, but I might give yer some new ideas as to where to go to find 'em."

"Fair enough. And what questions has Captain Tarannon asked?"

Anardil found his perception of orcs skewing yet again as this one continued to speak in growling tones even clearer than Gubbitch employed. "What was that bunch of war-like orcs doin' here? Were they waitin' for that particular bunch of people or just chancin' their luck? And if it were planned, who told 'em who to wait for?"

The man nodded at hearing the very questions that had been circling his brain for days. "Yet, you say you have no answers to them."

Lorgarth shrugged. "Perhaps bits and pieces you don't have."

"What do you think you know that would be helpful?"

Lorgarth gave a low chuckle. "That's a wide net you're castin'."

Anardil returned the orc's gaze with an impassive stare until Lorgarth shrugged again.

"No sense of humor about you, is there?" The gravelly voiced sounded briefly annoyed but carried on. "The boys that attacked your friends were not from 'round here. Captain Tarannon's right about that. And he's right about there not being any more like 'em in the area. Gubbitch, up at the Troll, and me have taken care of that. They carried mixed badges, which means they're a group formed up after the war."

Lorgarth tapped his crooked nose with an equally crooked finger before continuing. "The Captain ain't right in thinkin' they came out of the hills. The trail leads that way, but they weren't livin' up there."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"Too well fed. If those boys had been survivin' on rock lizards, they'd a been a whole lot skinnier. No, those fellows had been eatin' well. Either they come in from somewhere far off, for some odd reason given they were well fed where they were, or somebody was supplyin' 'em with food."

"And who would do that?"

"There's more folks around than you might think. And that's one of the things I don't have an answer to."

"Is that all?"

"Yer knowin' about the boy? Farmer Tiroc's boy."

"Cullen? Yes."

"Used to be right nice. Up till the time Rablot was killed. You know about Rablot?" Lorgarth waited until Anardil nodded then went on. "Drinkin' changed him, the lad. Owin' money to Drath, then to that Margul fellow."

Anardil tilted his head at this new name. Was this the person who had been filling Cullen's purse as well as supplying the words for his tongue? "What Margul fellow?"

Lorgarth's eyes gleamed. "Showed up a few months back. Hired the boy to do errands and things. He left town right soon after that little tussle."

"You don't say. Cullen didn't go with him?"

Shaking a large finger at Anardil, Lorgarth said, "You ain't catchin' me on that one. You saw the boy this afternoon. You and that judge fellow."

Allowing his expression to soften, Anardil gave a small shrug.

"Good thing too; boy goin' back to his father. Margul's a mean one. One of my lads worked for him for a while."

The screech of The Black Cauldron's back door caused both man and orc to fall back into deeper shadows.

"Gotta go. Drath'll take it out on me lads if'n I don't get back in there."

"Go then," Anardil allowed. "But Drath will have to grant you time when Lord Goldur asks to speak to you, which I'm sure he will."

Lorgarth raised his wispy brows in confusion, but obviously dared pause no longer. As the orc turned to leave, Anardil added softly, "Thank you, Lorgarth."

"LORGARTH! Get your ugly lazy self back in here. We've got customers!"

As Drath's voice took on a berating tone, Anardil watched the orc hunch down and duck his head. Gone was the upright stance of a moment ago and a wry half smile appeared on the ex-Ranger's face as Lorgarth answered the tavern owner in the guttural accents of a common orc. Yes, it was time to reassess his beliefs about orcish abilities.

Waiting in the shadows while the tavern's owner gave Lorgarth a string of instructions, he added the pieces of information he had received from Lorgarth and tried to create a whole picture. The idea of this mysterious Margul being more than just the guiding force behind Cullen's outspokenness was alluring, but there seemed to be no connection back to the group attacked on the road. None of them had mentioned the name, and Anardil supposed anyone mean enough to raise the hackles of an orc would have been someone both Sev and Darien would have taken note of. Or had they simply never crossed paths with the man? He would have to send a message to them asking about the fellow as Lord Goldur had made it plain he wished to be back in Minas Tirith the day after tomorrow.

The rusty hinge again signaled the closing of the door, snapping Anardil out of his reverie. Leaving his riverman persona beneath the trees, he untied and shook loose his hair, draped his cloak to disguise the absence of his left arm and strode purposely back toward the main street of the village. Arrangements would need to be made quickly for the Judge's interviews with Lorgarth and Corbat, but it would be better if Jasimir or perhaps Jareth carried the message to The Black Cauldron. The nameless riverman had already served his purpose.

xxx

TBC ...


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_28th March  
__Henneth Annûn_

"You've heard from Margul?" Sira stared, white-faced, at Cullen.

The youth's arm curled around his tankard where it rested on the bar of The Whistling Dog. He morosely inspected the frothing ale. "Yes. But it's the last thing I wanted. He's ordered me to make another delivery to Minna."

"Who?" The name was female. Sira's eyes narrowed to slits.

Cullen realised he had said too much, but distance and time distorted his perception of the 'Minna' situation. He no longer felt so embarrassed or afraid. "Margul's 'friend'," he sneered.

Those words carried all the emphasis that the barmaid needed to begin speculating wildly. "Another woman? Is that who he is with?"

With a shrug and thrust-out bottom lip, Cullen admitted his ignorance. "I doubt he's with her now, but he must have been 'with' her at some time. When I complained that the ugly little wench wouldn't keep her hands off me, he said I'd missed a chance; that she could have taught me things. Ugh!"

Sira's eyes opened so wide that it seemed they pulled her cheeks inwards. Her copper curls trembled around a neck tautened such that the veins stood out. "What-" She paused to inhale. "Who-" Taking another deep breath, she finally arrived at a sensible question. "What do you 'deliver' to this- this - her?"

"Clothes, special foods … treats, I guess, and then everyday things that a body needs. I think they are for more than just her. There's iron-capped boots and a leather jerkin for a start."

Cullen lifted his tankard and swallowed deeply, his own concerns paramount in his mind. He failed to notice Sira's fury. Using the heel of his hand to wipe foam from his mouth, he summed up his dilemma. "I've got to be in Minas Tirith on the night of the thirtieth, and that's when I'm also supposed to meet Minna. So, I'm stuck. I can't do both. If I fail to go to the city with my father and the other witnesses, I'll be breaking the law. If I fail to deliver supplies to that wench, Margul will be after my blood. I may as well just slit my own throat and save everyone the trouble."

Leaning across the bar, Sira grabbed Cullen's sleeve, forcing him to meet her eye. "Tell me exactly where this delivery is to be made. If you cannot do it, then maybe I can."

As she let go, Cullen laughed, but then he noticed that Sira was deadly serious and his mirth vanished. "You can't ride almost all the way to the Crossroads by yourself. No one's supposed to travel alone these days; it's too dangerous."

"Not at the moment," Sira insisted. "There's travellers from all over the place heading towards Minas Tirith, many of them rangers and soldiers. There'll be no orcs or outlaws hanging around. Anyway, you should be grateful, as you pointed out you have little choice. It's either my help or you face the consequences."

Put like that, the young man thought, he'd be stupid to refuse. Sira was a woman grown and no shrinking violet; if she wanted to take the risk, it was her choice. "If you're sure. I'll go and fetch the sacks and a map."

"I'm sure. You do that, while I think up an excuse to go missing for a couple of days. Oh, and bring me a pair of your leggings and a cloak."

A good idea, Cullen thought. Better not to travel in her usual choice of clothes. He reassured himself that this demonstrated her good sense. Never for a moment did he wonder why Sira wanted to meet Minna, nor what she would do when she did.

xxx

_Northern Ithilien_

Closing the small book of poetry with a snap, Sev muttered, "The next time they dare to criticize what Esgallyg and I write, I'll do a recitation of Dumo Toeworthy's epic ode to the potato."

Setting the book aside, she shifted the sleeping form of Tac from her lap and rose to remove the kettle from the brazier and pour a mug of tea. Resolutely she stirred in several drops of valerian extract.

Since giving her word to Lord Goldur, her sleep had been troubled. For the few days that Anardil had been home, the problem was minimal. But with his departure, her sleeplessness increased to the point where she gulped down ever larger doses of the bitter valerian with waning hope that it would allow her some much needed rest.

During the day, she managed, for the most part, to temper her worries. Moving from task to task with a steadiness that she believed hid the moments of panic that welled up. A few eyebrows had been raised by the continued assignment of Milo and a rotating escort of elves to the task of driving her newly repaired cart to and from Henneth Annûn for supplies. Her explanation that it was more important for her to focus on gathering the spring herbs and healing plants than it was for her to run up and down the road every few days had been easily accepted by most. She was certain that Halbarad and Celebsul had discussed in depth her continued avoidance of the sturdy draft horse Alfgard had sent to pull the cart, but as yet they had not confronted her. With luck, she would be able to maintain her composure until the hearing was over.

Brushing and rebraiding her hair for sleep, she reflected on the fact that Kerwin and Aerio would have reached Minas Tirith by now. Silently, she threw a prayer at the gods that Lord Goldur knew what he was doing asking Kerwin to assist him during the hearing. While well meaning to a fault and an obvious wizard at organization, the young man had the capacity to turn even the simplest task into a disaster. And this endeavor was filled with an ever increasing number of pitfalls and traps, not the least of which was that Lord Goldur considered her testimony to be of import and she was becoming more and more certain that she was not up to the task.

'_You'll do what must be done,'_ she sternly told herself. '_As you were taught.'_

Extinguishing the last of the lamps, she wrapped herself in one of Anardil's shirts and willed herself to believe he held her in his embrace. The soft thud of Tac jumping from the chair by the fire was quickly followed by a thump as he landed upon the feather pillow near her head. Reaching out, she rubbed his ears and said, "Developing bad habits we are. You do know he won't share that pillow when he gets back?"

Tac meowed plaintively and butted at her fingers for a more solid scratching of his head. The cat had determined that his mission at night was to be there whenever Sev woke, an event that occurred far too frequently to his feline mind. Beginning a rumbling purr designed to put even the most wide awake being to sleep, Tac yawned with satisfaction as her fingers slowed and her eyes closed. Job done, he could go to sleep himself, until he was needed again.

xxx

_29th March  
Northern Ithilien_

The windows yet reflected the black of night outside, but within the Inn of The Burping Troll lights were ablaze and voices broke the pre-dawn hush. At the great hearth in the common room Halbarad knelt stoking the fire to a merry blaze, though given the amount of to-ing and fro-ing going on, those awake were not likely to take chill any time soon. Feet thudded on the stairs and voices exclaimed in the hallways: "Meri, have you seen my mittens?" "Master Celebsul, you won't forget to visit that bookseller, will you?" "Bob, confound it, get your oversized self out of my way."

Packs already leaned beside the front door, their owners' cloaks and coats and other warm things heaped on top. In the kitchen the clatter, steam and tasty aromas of breakfast were in full career despite the early hour, and the cheerful voices of their hobbit cooks were heard each time the door opened.

Halbarad stood, giving the fire a last satisfied glance, then looked up as a familiar sturdy form appeared. He nodded as he watched the woman approach, muffling a yawn while she wandered towards one of the overstuffed chairs before the hearth.

"Good morning, Sevi. Are you all ready?"

"It is morning," she returned, as she positioned herself and sat down with a sigh. "Whether it's good or not remains to be seen. And no, I'm not ready, but I suppose we can't delay it any longer. Time to put all those good intentions to work."

"Aye." He leaned a fist on the mantle. Looking up again he added, "I do trust Lord Aragorn, Sevi. He is a good and fair man."

"Be that as it may." Sev laced her hands in her lap and shut her eyes for a moment's calm. "It is not he who will be answering heaven knows what sort of awkward questions under the eyes of the Great Council."

"True." Halbarad offered a small smile. "But you remain the most stubborn woman I've ever met, besides my mother, and I have every faith you are strong enough to see this through."

Sev roused enough to give him a baleful look. "Thank you. I think."

He chuckled, and then looked up as two more of the early-risers wandered in. Lord Darien was yawning immensely, but the darker shadow at his heels smiled with brown, alertly-twinkling eyes.

"Lord Darien, Horus, a good morning to you."

Shaking her head, Sev said, "He keeps insisting it's a good morning. The man is clearly mad."

Chuckles rippled between the men as Darien ambled to the hearth and Horus settled himself in an empty chair like a long, brown cat.

"The morning that begins in laughter," the Haradrim said gently, "carries a hope of joys to come."

As if on cue, a gale of bright hobbit laughter rang from the kitchen. An unseen door thudded and a quick patter of feet brought yet another face into view.

"Oh, Halbarad, are my mittens over there?"

The Ranger turned as Erin scampered towards him. Peering around the hearth, he said, "No, I - oh, are these them?" He plucked two bits of dark wool from atop the kindling box.

"Wonderful! I forgot where I left them, silly thing that I am." She flashed a grin, her curls bouncing around her rosy face. "I suppose it's a good thing we're going to a city, because if I forget anything really important I'll be able to buy another!"

With that she spun and raced away again, her voice ringing behind her: "Meriiii! I found them!"

"Laughter indeed," Darien said with a smile. "It would seem there is little that dampens hobbit spirits." His humor faded as he added, "At least not for long." He glanced at Halbarad and said, "I believe we are as prepared as we can be. Thanks to the help of Aerio and young Kerwin we are certainly far more organized than I dared hope."

"Yes, that was an unexpected blessing." Halbarad glanced towards the kitchen with a rueful expression. "Although I think the hobbits are still stitching and scrubbing after poor Kerwin's many mishaps. I do hope he doesn't fall in the campfire or wander off and misplace himself in the wilderness before he reaches Minas Tirith."

Mention of their willing but hapless young scribe brought answering wry grins to several faces. The fact that he had made it out of the yard two days previously having only tripped over one broom, walked into one door frame and nearly pulled a loosely-cinched saddle over on himself, was considered an auspicious beginning.

"At least he's traveling with an elf," Sev said. "Aerio should be able to find him, no matter how cleverly he gets lost."

Darien idly rubbed the back of his head as he stared down into the fire snapping in the hearth. "Then I suppose we are ready as we can be. Curious. All this time I have driven towards a goal, and now that I stand facing the last steps to it, I find myself anxious as a boy."

"I can imagine," said Halbarad quietly. "Planning the battle and placing the men is one thing, but it's quite another when one is waiting before the foe upon the field."

From the chair nearest the fire came an unladylike noise. "What is it with you men?" said Sev. "You see everything in terms of battle and mayhem. What's wrong with simply looking at this as doing the right thing?"

Horus smiled his white smile as Darien and Halbarad stared at each other, nonplussed. Then movement appeared in the hallway as a gentle voice spoke.

"Indeed, it is the right thing," said Celebsul, and firelight touched his silver hair as he drew near the fire's warmth. "But more than that, you do the _just_ thing. Even if Gubbitch and his 'lads' don't entirely understand …" He favored them all with a kindly look. "You are laying the foundations for change. Aragorn the King Elessar is called the Renewer, and you are all, in your small ways, part of that renewal."

"And that is supposed to comfort me?" asked Sev. "Putting me in the same mouthful as the King of Gondor?"

"Yes," Celebsul replied. "For the truth is, that not even the humblest of us is without worth or strength."

Sev snorted but a glint of humor touched her eyes. It reached her lips as Halbarad said plaintively, "I don't know about you, but I think I need breakfast before I attempt philosophy."

Laughter rang out once more, and then cheery hobbit voices called them all to eat.

xxx

Cold dawn washed the eastern sky with the first tint of yellow when the travelers at last found their saddles. Darien, Horus and Celebsul were figures shrouded in cloaks and hoods, but warm wool did not disguise the angle of sheathed swords nor of the bow and quiver slung across Celebsul's back. As Sev swung to her seat the soft creak of leather was heard, for beneath her cloak she wore her leather brigandine and her own Rohirrim blade. Even Erin fussed with the hobbit sword tied to her saddle, her father's small but serviceable blade. They had once been taken unawares on the road: it would not happen again.

The Rangers Halbarad and Bob stood in the chilly blue shadows to bid them good journey, while from the windows peered the faces of those who had said their farewells inside.

"It may take a week, it may take two," Darien said. "We'll send word how things go."

Halbarad nodded, but before he could reply the front door banged open. "Wait!" cried a high voice. Down the steps flew a small, bundled figure and Meri waved cloth sack over her head.

"You went off without the sugared apple treats! Goodness! You'd be starving before lunch, without."

Horus being closest reached from his saddle with a smile. "Thank you, Mistress Meri," he said gently.

Meri dimpled prettily, then spun and turned her attention to the fat red horse behind the Haradrim. "And you, Miss Busy-Britches Erin. You had better not forget to write. Every day, mind you, and seal it up in a letter every third day."

"I will." Erin leaned forward to clasp her friend's extended hand and squeeze warmly. "And I promise not to have any adventures."

"Not even little ones," said Meri sternly. "Unless of course they are things like lunch with the King and Queen."

They giggled together, and then as Meri stepped back she pulled her coat closer around her. "You must all be very careful, you hear? I simply won't have anything less than all of you back home, safe and sound. Minas Tirith is a very big city and I'm sure all sorts of wicked things lurk there, if one goes in the wrong places."

"No wrong places, Meri," said Sev with quick laugh. "I've learned my lesson about that."

Celebsul looked down at the visibly worried hobbit lass with a gentle smile of his own. "I might take them to see the great library. Would that be a safe place to go?"

"Oh yes!" Meri's dimples appeared. "Libraries are very safe. Good-bye, Erin! Good-bye, everyone! We'll have a splendid great dinner as soon as you return."

There was only one other wanting and he appeared as the first clop of hooves sounded, a crooked form hunched in the saddle of a brown horse. As he trotted now to join them, the shorter figure of a hobbit lad stood by the barn waving farewell.

"Safe journey, Gubbitch," called Milo merrily. "Remember not to smile those teeth at too many people and you'll be just fine!"

In response the old orc grinned with every broken, multicolored tooth in his head and waved a crooked arm in parting. "Ah'll be back wearin' a shiny coat 'n new boots, tha'll see!"

Meri's laughter pealed into the morning as the company turned away towards the road. In moments all that remained was a sifting of pale dust behind them.

xxx

_30th March  
__Minas Tirith_

Minas Tirith. The White City. The seat of the great kings and the renewed heart of united Gondor and Arnor. Erin the hobbit rode with her mouth gaped open and it was a good thing her fat, gentle horse was content to clip-clop along with its mates, for her mind was not on the road. She had seen the city twice before, the first time from the back of a wagon in a drizzling rain, as she and Meri rumbled south from heartache and loss to their new lives at The Burping Troll. The second time had been a summer ago, when she, Sevi, Aerio and Celebsul passed by during their return from a journey to the sea aboard the elven ship, Rowan.

But this … this was magnificence beyond compare. The outer walls of the Rammas Echor were behind them and they rode now through the fallow fields of the Pelannor. To either side of the road, pasture and tithe were coming awake, with a soft green blush of spring appearing over winter's grey. But in the golden light of afternoon the ancient city stood bathed in glory. Gleaming walls rose as mighty bulwarks from the lands below, the scars of Sauron's war utterly cleansed away. From the east face jutted the very brow of the mountain itself, a mighty wedge of stone sharp as a ship's prow that stood forth piercing each level of the city save the bottom-most.

As the walls drew closer, Erin's gaze traveled upwards in wonder, lifting to a point a thousand feet above the fertile plain. Then all at once the afternoon sun threw aside a veil of cloud and blazed into fiery magnificence behind the shining spire of the Tower of Ecthelion. Like a beacon it shone, ageless, untouched, untouchable.

"OH!" she cried, and found all other words quite stolen away.

Behind her Horus rode in silence, his dark face revealing little and his tongue dumb. His eyes, however, widened as he too took in the glorious symbol of Gondor's renewal and power. Aye, he had also seen the city before, but that had been in dark, bloody days of war, with himself on the wrong side of those walls and death's hand just missing its clutch at his soul. If he held a wish, perhaps he prayed that no such peril awaited him and his comrades now.

Then they rode at last into cool lavender shadows beneath the looming ramparts and the great gates of Minas Tirith stood before them. Shining as if graven of the face of the Moon, they were massive barriers of mithril and steel that gently reflected the waning light of day, and flickered with the approaching figures of newcomers to the city. Once these doors had stood barred against the minions of Mordor, but now they were swung wide and the guards of the city were as much honor to guests as warding against any real mischief. As the clatter of this company's hooves drew near, however, the guards straightened and two of the soldiers advanced to meet them.

Immediately Celebsul pushed back the hood of his cloak and the sentries halted in astonishment as his fair elven features were revealed. Their confused glances darted from him to his unlikely companions, orc, hobbit, Rohirrim and Haradrim, but the sergeant stepped forward willingly as Celebsul drew his horse to a halt. Only a few quiet words were required, and then the guards smiled, bowed and withdrew to their posts. However, their gazes followed as Horus and Gubbitch passed within.

Immediately Celebsul's company was besieged by a small, grinning, shouting band of lads all offering their services as guides through the city. Ignoring the two guardsmen who had surreptitiously fallen in behind Darien and Horus, Sevilodorf beckoned to one of the youngsters.

"Do you know of the trader Esiwmas of Rohan?"

"Certainly, mistress," replied the freckle-faced boy, as he pulled a cloth cap from his head and smiled engagingly. His eyes darted from Gubbitch's misshapen features to Erin, perched atop her barrel shaped horse, then on to the silver-haired elf who rode between them.

"Will you lead us to his stables?"

His glance flickered to the family crest embossed on the battered leather brigandine she wore, but to his credit he merely replied, "'Tis only a short distance."

Sev nodded. "But confusing for those unaccustomed to stone cities."

"That it is, mistress," the boy agreed solemnly. "Why, not more than a month back a group from Laketown lost their way up in the fourth circle and wandered about for days."

"I trust you will not allow that to be our fate," Sev said as Erin exclaimed, "Oh, my!"

"I haven't lost a customer yet," he replied with a grin.

"How reassuring," Sevilodorf commented dryly, and tossed the boy a copper as she picked up her reins.

Catching the coin deftly, the boy waved a hand and headed off down the bustling stone-lined street at a trot. In seconds the party was utterly swallowed in the narrow stone ways of Minas Tirith.

xxx

Gubbitch had never been inside a city before, let alone the capital of Gondor. As he gaped around in awe, faces looked back at him from the teeming streets, some with repugnance, some contorting with hate, but many simply staring because of the incongruity of an orc riding freely within the walls of Minas Tirith. A few of these folk had already witnessed the arrival of other orcs. They knew that it was inevitable. The hearing had received wide publicity, and orc witnesses were a necessity.

There were plus sides, however, the sight of the golden-haired hobbit lass, for one, and Celebsul's elegant presence as another. Also, the city thronged with visiting dignitaries; profits rose steeply in shops, hostelries and eating-houses. Stable-lads led horses out to pasture as the liveries filled to overflowing with the mounts of visitors. The citizens of Minas Tirith were out in force; goodwives abandoning their firesides, and children their toys, to ensure they did not miss a sight or sound of the unusual goings-on on this eve of the high day of Tuilérë.

Keeping her eyes fastened on their guide in an effort to pretend that their small group was not the focal point of all those staring faces, Sevilodorf allowed herself a moment of longing for the forests of Ithilien. Anything larger than a village made her nervous, and Minas Tirith, with its stone canyons, caused her stomach to clench into a knot. It was unnatural for so many people to live so close together. However did her cousin stand to dwell here for weeks on end?

Erin lagged slightly behind the lead horse, grinning cheerily at the many exclamations of 'periannath', and her head swivelled almost as much as Gubbitch's as she took in the magnificent surroundings. In her wake rode Celebsul, Darien and Horus, talking quietly amongst themselves, apparently oblivious to the grandeur of Gondor and the clamour of its citizens. However, when Erin glanced back, she noticed Horus' eyes flicker from time-to-time, as if he snatched scenes to keep for later contemplation.

_'This is a nice sort of adventure_,' the hobbit thought as she waved to a group of children who called to her. Putting aside all thoughts of tomorrow, Erin nudged her horse closer to Gubbitch's.

"Isn't the city wonderful?" she asked. "And very soon you'll get to meet Sevilodorf's cousin."

Gubbitch smiled tightly, carefully concealing his teeth. "City's reet big an' bright an' busy. Ain't we getting' a lot o' attention. An' ah 'ope Sev knows what she's doin' takin' me to meet 'er family."

xxx

If anyone had asked, Esiwmas of Rohan would have admitted to being more worried about meeting the single orc entering in his stable yard than all the armies of uruks he had faced at Helm's Deep and on the Pelennor Fields. The towering blond man scowled to cover his discomfiture as he studied the odd cavalcade now clattering through his gate. As head of the family, he could insist that Sevilodorf give up this strange campaign; but lacking the disposition for extended battles with stubborn women, he had become resigned to allowing his cousin to do as she pleased. Her self-imposed exile from Rohan was a case in point, though he felt a measure of satisfaction that he had managed to arrange for regular reports on her actions through Alfgard in Henneth Annun and several of the many cousins who trekked the roads on trading expeditions.

Why, he wondered, did it seem so much easier to accept his cousin's association with the balrog and warg that he had met during a trip to The Burping Troll, than it did for her to be riding alongside an orc? He and Anardil had discussed the matter over several large mugs of ale, after receipt of Sev's hastily scrawled missive following the attack at Henneth Annun. The ex-Ranger had theorized that it was because the balrog and the warg seemed more like animals, which might be domesticated, where the orcs, obviously more manlike, did not. Under the influence of ale, the theory had seemed reasonable.

Now, standing in the shadow of the stable door, watching the hulking figure of an orc dismounting from what was certainly a prime piece of horseflesh, Esiwmas was not so certain. Ents had, if one ignored the exorbitant number of toes and fingers, the general shape of a man, but no one would consider them Men. Nor would trolls or bears be considered as such. What about this creature could truly be considered manlike?

Then the gnarled hands reached up to assist the hobbit lass from her saddle, and swung her to earth as lightly as a child. What was assuredly the most toothsome grin Esiwmas had ever seen spread across the orc's battered face, as the hobbit smilingly thanked him. Giving himself a shake, the Rohirrim trader decided if a little bit of a lass could put up with the creature, then so could he. Stepping forward, he pasted a smile on his face and motioned the stable lads forward to take the horses.

"You are well met, cousin," he exclaimed in a booming voice, then sidestepped quickly to avoid the snapping teeth of Sev's mount. Giving the animal a glare, that was returned in kind, he said, "Of all the horses in Middle Earth, why do you have to choose that ill tempered, scraggly-maned beast?"

Sev gave the muddy grey neck a pat and raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Just because you can't get away with mauling me when Biscuit's around is no reason to be so irritable. And what are you doing here anyway? Anardil said that you were planning to leave on the twenty-fifth for Rohan."

"And miss a chance to see you take on the High Council? I sent the boys back with Liam and will head for home myself as soon as the hearing is over." Though said in a bantering tone, Sev understood that Esiwmas had stayed to give her his support. "And before you ask, Anardil begged that you accept his apologies for not being here to greet you, and requested that word be sent to Lord Goldur as soon as you arrived."

After Esiwmas directed the lad who had led them from the gate to deliver news of their arrival to Lord Goldur, she remembered her manners and introduced Darien and Horus to Esiwmas, and allowed him to make proper greetings to Erin and Celebsul. Finally, she led Es to where Gubbitch stood gazing up towards the Citadel and the White Tower.

"This is Gubbitch. He is leader of the orcs who live near The Burping Troll, and a friend."

Gubbitch stooped his back slightly more than usual in an attempt at a polite bow as the broad shouldered Rohirrim stared down at him without expression.

Attempting to pace his gravely tones for easy understanding, the orc inquired, "Is tha a traderman like Sev?"

Esiwmas nodded. "Aye, I trade a bit here and there."

Sev rolled her eyes at this understatement but did not interfere; her kinsman would have to reach his own conclusions about Gubbitch.

"Ah sees men takin' things out on row-ad. An' bringin' things back from dwarves up in Ash Mountains. Are they thine?"

Esiwmas looked bewildered for a moment, then Sev murmured something in Rohirric and his face cleared. "Aye, those are my traders."

Gubbitch bobbed his scarred head agreeably, but remembered not to smile his ugly smile. "After tomorro's done wi', mebbe thee and me could 'ave a chinwag. Got some things me lads made that them there dwarves might wanna trade for. An' as Sev 'ere allus tret us reet, thought thy might too."

Having understood about a quarter of what the orc said, Esiwmas filled in the blanks as best he could and replied. "Yes, well … we can talk about it. Anything that will turn a profit is worth discussing. Do you make a good living from what you make?"

Gubbitch snorted, and then composed his face into the twisted expression that indicated his normal, mild demeanour. "Can't say we do, but we get by. Got food from forest an' such like to keep us goin'. Folks at Troll 'elp out, but we dun't want owt for nowt. Need to trade stuff to pay our way."

Raising his eyebrows, Esiwmas mulled this over for a moment. In his experience most orcs robbed and killed to ensure their survival, yet here was one who claimed his band lived off the land and made things in an effort to earn an income. And his cousin's friendship with Gubbitch provided evidence that this was true.

"Paying your way in life, in money or kind, is a virtue." The trader squared his broad shoulders and added words he had never dreamt to speak to an orc: "We will certainly have to discuss what we can do by way of trade together."

Esiwmas then turned to speak to the whole group. "Well enough, it would be best to wait for the messenger from Lord Goldur to guide you to your inn. Meanwhile let me fetch you all something to wash the road from your mouths."

A clap of his powerful hands sent inquisitive stable boys scattering back to their tasks, as the grateful company sank down on benches outside the stable doors. Though leisurely, the ride had been long and their arrival was welcome relief.

When the travelers each held a cup of ale or cider, Esiwmas spoke quietly to Sevilodorf. "We can catch up on news later. Arrangements have been made for a family dinner this evening. Everyone is looking forward to your company, and that of Anardil also."

Sev smiled weakly and stared into her cider. There would be no excuse to escape the meal except, perhaps, her sudden demise.

xxx

TBC ...


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_30th March  
__A Glade North of Osgiliath_

Sira had set out the day after the Henneth Annun witnesses departed for Minas Tirith. Margul's contemptuous bag of coins, left to humiliate her, served to hire the horse that she rode; an elderly, docile beast suited to her rarely practiced and poor riding skills. A mere smile proved sufficient to persuade the stable master to saddle and bridle the animal for her, and she had no intentions of removing said equipment until she returned the horse to its owner.

The journey turned out remarkably trouble free. A pair of riders had overtaken her along the way, and she nodded from under her hood in response to their greetings as they cantered by. Since then, she had seen no one. Twilight settled around her, its sapphire beauty unnoticed except that it heralded the rendezvous time. Scanning the roadside, Sira finally found the oddly shaped stone that marked the way into the glade. She clambered down from the horse and led it in amongst the trees, slowly picking her way along the almost invisible trail.

"THERE YER BE CULLEN! GET YERSELF OVER 'ERE, LOVEY!"

If Sira had still been riding, she would surely have fallen off at this greeting. Throwing back her hood, she stared in horror at the young woman thundering across the small clearing towards her.

That was sufficient to halt Minna's progress. "Yer not Cullen! Who in creation are yer? And wot yer doin' 'ere?"

"Cullen couldn't make it. So I've brought your things instead." Was that rouge on the girl's cheeks? Surely not. Who would create such a colour, let alone wear it?

"Margul ain't gonna be pleased about that, missy. Where's Cullen?"

Sira stared down her nose at the squat, smelly creature that dared to pass opinions on what might not please Margul. "Cullen's called as a witness in Minas Tirith … and don't you 'missy' me!"

Rocking her greasy hair with each word, Minna repeated in a sing-song voice, "Don't - you - 'missy' - me." Then she folded her arms beneath her ample bosom and glared. "A right uppity madam, ain't yer? I'd be more careful if I were ya."

"I am more careful! More careful how I apply my rouge for a start."

Minna burst into a loud cackle of laughter before composing herself. "Yer wearin' rouge, are yer? I think yer must 'ave put it on the wrong cheeks, 'cos I can't see it. Not that it would do much for yer scrawny backside either. I can't see any bloke wantin' a look at that."

Her hand itching to slap the pig-faced girl, Sira scowled in indignation. "At least my backside differs from my face, unlike yours."

The next thing Sira knew was that she was falling over backwards with a great weight astride her. "Get off me, you- you- "

The unspoken word was knocked out of her mouth by a savage blow to her jaw, and multicoloured stars sparkled in the descending internal darkness.

xxx

When Sira regained consciousness, she found she was propped against a tree trunk, and that her hands and feet were bound. Her jaw and head throbbed with pain and her eyes seemed unable to focus clearly. Without bidding, a groan of agony escaped between her lips.

A few feet away, Minna sat cross-legged beside a small campfire, nursing a bowl of stew. "I told yer to be more careful. Yer shouldn't mess with Minna."

"Let me go," Sira pleaded quietly, then as her senses began to return, she added, "Margul will be furious that you've hurt me."

"One o' Margul's cast-offs, eh? I thought so. Well, I know 'im better than ye, an' I can tell yer the only thing that 'ud make 'im mad 'ud be if 'is plan was spoilt. An' as Cullen ain't 'ere to play 'is part, you're it."

"I'm what?" Sira tried to shake some clarity into her head, but the movement proved too torturous.

"Better not to know." Minna fished a piece of meat from the bowl and stuffed it into her mouth. Dark gravy trickled down her chin, and from there, dripped onto her tunic.

"Please tell me," Sira whispered, realising at last that she was in terrible danger.

"Aye, well, as yer not gonna live long enough to learn to listen to advice, I'll do that. Yer know about this orcs rights stuff, well Margul ain't 'appy about it. So 'e reckoned that orcs chuckin' a man's head into the city tomorro' might just stir up a few memories. Course, I reckon that a woman's 'ead 'ud be even better."

"You're going to kill me?"

"Not me, missy." Minna smiled slyly. "I'm just awaitin' for Odbut and some of Margul's other lads to arrive."

"Lads? You mean orcs?" Falling silent for a while, Sira sifted through her aching brain to examine the facts she knew about Margul, and those she once thought she knew. It suddenly all clicked into place, but she had sense enough not to say anything.

Instead Sira concentrated, harder than she ever had in her life, on her current predicament. "But surely any orcs seen throwing a head into the city would be caught instantly, and then the authorities will find out about Margul?"

Minna snorted. "Yer seem to think we're all as stupid as yerself. The orcs that'll throw yer 'ead won't know anythin' about Margul. Odbut's paid 'em a load and promised 'em more if they escape. If they do, fine, if they don't …" The girl shrugged.

In deepening horror, Sira understood that this was a real plan, not just a story invented by Minna to frighten her. She wracked her brains for a way to escape, but there was nothing; the situation looked hopeless. Tears welled in her eyes, and started to stream down her cheeks. She was going to die.

xxx

Minna finished her stew and wandered off into the forest. What for, Sira could only speculate; modesty she doubted, maybe the girl was impatient for the orcs to arrive. Examining the ropes around her wrists, Sira struggled desperately to loosen them, but the knots were securely tied.

As her head fell against the trunk in despair, another feeling - sudden as a bolt of lightning - flooded through her: icy, white fury. Sira pushed her back viciously against the tree forcing herself to her feet. There was something that could release her bonds. She stared at the flames of the campfire and hauled herself into a hobble towards it. Dropping to her knees, she stared into the hot embers. What could be worse, burnt hands or decapitation? One might hurt more, but it would not give that ugly troll of a girl the satisfaction of knowing she had won.

Sira held her hands towards a flickering flame. As the heat invaded her skin, she gritted her teeth. The rope began to smoulder. Pain almost forced a scream from her mouth, then the image of the mocking trollop blotted out all else; that a mere girl, with such a ghastly idea of what was attractive, dared to mock one such as herself, was beyond endurance. Trembling with rage, Sira refused to die with the twin humiliations doled out by Margul and his … Failing to find an adequate word, she watched the rope blacken. The burning of hemp and flesh became almost a balm for her anger.

Just as her bonds snapped, Minna charged out of the forest. "Wot yer doin', yer silly wench?"

Without a reply or thought for her skin, Sira scooped up a handful of hot ashes and threw them directly into the girl's face.

Minna screamed and fell to her knees, clawing to brush the burning embers from her eyes. Despite her own blistering palm, Sira grabbed the knife from the girl's belt. Slicing through the ropes at her feet, the red-head freed herself and dashed towards her horse.

She glanced back just once. Minna sprawled upon the ground, hands clutched to her face. "Yes it hurts, doesn't it," Sira muttered, and hoped gleefully that she had blinded the sow. Her own hands and wrists were raw, but white heat still sang in her veins. She had faced battle and death, and survived. Climbing onto the placid horse, she kicked its ribs. "Go! Go!"

The old gelding smelt burnt flesh, fear and fury, and a vague recollection of war filtered into his mind. He set off with all the vigour he could muster, off towards the city he had once defended, Minas Tirith. Sira lay flat against the horse's back and willed it to find a road to safety.

xxx

_Minas Tirith_

Without opening his eyes, Anardil rolled onto his back. Sev was gone. Again. He had yet to discover what thoughts caused her to rise from her bed to pace the floor, or worse, to cry out in the grips of terrors she would claim no memory of upon awakening. Sev's inner shields had been wrought with care, and he would not force her to lower them, though there were moments when he considered knocking her in the head to make her stay in one place.

Reviewing the hours since her arrival in Minas Tirith, Anardil concluded that she had started acting strangely during their late afternoon meeting with Lord Goldur. Perched on the edge of her chair, eyes downcast, with hands clasped tightly in her lap, Sev's responses to the judge's comments had been kept to one word replies and voiced in a barely audible tone. Later, when shown to her room on the second floor of the elegant inn in the third circle of the city, Sev had followed after the man with the air of one being led not to a spacious well-appointed guestroom, but to a prison cell. She had been more herself when Anardil returned from a quick trip back to the tiny room he kept in a less savory section of the city. Before he was allowed to escort her to the dinner arranged by her kinsman, Esiwmas, Sev had dragged him in to show him the room divider beautifully embroidered with oliphaunts, and laughingly wondering how they might manage to have such commissioned for their room at The Burping Troll.

Once they entered the large dining hall, Sev had become steadily quieter, until by the last course she was merely moving her food about on her plate to make it appear she was eating. To his inquiries, she had responded that she had no appetite and asked if they might make their excuses to the others and walk along the parapets.

An hour they had strolled under the starlight, and occasionally she had stopped mid-stride to chew her bottom lip in thought. Returning to her room, she had insisted that he stay with her, that she did not care what the servants thought, and that if anyone else had any objections, they could just keep them to themselves.

Though wed in heart and mind, no legal bond yet existed. Each time he had suggested a proper ceremony, Sev had shied from the subject like a nervous horse. And though his liege and her kinsmen had given unspoken sanction to their partnership, there were a few who would undoubtedly feel that their openly sharing the same room was skirting the bounds of Gondorian propriety. Too much time and effort had gone into reaching this day to have either his or Sev's honor questioned. However after a heated exchange, Anardil decided that arguing with her would cause more of a scene than staying and reluctantly agreed.

Now, staring up into the darkness of the high ceiling, he frowned. Where could she have gone? It was not wise for her to wander the halls without an escort. Throwing aside the blankets with a sigh, he sat up determined to find her and haul her back to bed.

But she had not gone far. Huddled on a small stool near the immense tiled hearth, she sat wraithlike in her white nightgown and dark hair flowing about her shoulders. Banked embers glowed faintly, but still a chill came from the stone floors. All anger drained from him as she turned a woebegone face to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm sorry you didn't."

Anardil sighed as she turned away. Pulling a blanket from the bed, he padded across the room to wrap it around her. Kneeling before her, he took an icy hand in his and whispered, "My lady, why did you not wake me?"

Keeping her eyes upon the fading embers, she replied stiffly, "There is nothing you can do. It is my problem to face."

"Can you not tell me what troubles you?" Anardil said, rubbing warmth back into her fingers. "Please, Sevi."

She shook her head.

Frustration sharpened his voice. "Why not?"

She jerked as if he had struck her and stuttered," B...B…Because."

Refusing to release her hand, though she attempted to tug it from his grasp, he stood and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed at the blanket with her free hand as it slid to the floor and glared at him for an instant, then she squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head.

"I am too old to sit on a cold floor and argue in circles. At least let us be warm and comfortable while we work this out."

Not giving her a chance to respond, he led her across the room. Releasing her hand, he plumped the pillows with exaggerated vigor and arranged them against the ornately carved headboard. With a courtly bow, he motioned toward the bed.

When she merely stood there, Anardil grimaced, "Please, Sevi, my feet are getting cold."

Wrapping her arms around herself, she shivered slightly. "So are mine."

With a half smile, Anardil held out his hand. Sev responded warily, "I don't want to talk."

Anardil's smile widened. "By all means, Sevi, let's not talk. I can think of many other things to do instead."

"I wager you can. But that's not what I meant, and you know it." Sev took a half step away from the bed.

"Very well, if you won't get in, I will. As I said, I am too old for cold stone floors."

Anardil sat down upon the bed, twitched the disarrayed blankets straight and leaned against the pillows. Patting the space beside him, he said in a low voice, "Join me, _meleth nin_."

Warmth flared momentarily somewhere near the pit of her stomach, yet she shook her head and repeated, "I don't want to talk."

His voice was warm and heavy as he said, "I have no intention of making you talk."

"Oh?" She lifted her chin. "And what do you intend to make me do?"

Anardil looked thoughtful. "I had considered knocking you out so you would remain in one spot. Then, I could go back to sleep."

Sev snorted. "You've made that suggestion before."

Anardil chuckled, "Yes. Now, will you come back to bed?"

She eyed him indecisively. But he was right; the floor was cold. Stepping around the bed, Sev slipped under the blankets as he rearranged the pillows. Tucking the hem of her nightgown around her cold feet, she snuggled against his 'bad' side and lay her head in the hollow of his left shoulder. His right arm came up to pull the blanket more firmly about her shoulders, then brushed strands of her long dark hair from her face.

"It will be a tangled mess in the morning," Sev muttered. "There are days I think I should cut it all off."

Anardil shook his head and continued smoothing aside the strands that reached almost to her waist. He had no desire to fall into the trap she was setting by beginning a discussion about trivialities. His lady was a master at avoiding conversations she did not want to have, but this time he was determined that she had met her match.

The silence lengthened, and he smiled with satisfaction as she shifted beside of him. Silence was a void aching to be filled, and he had provoked many discussions with people who did not want to talk simply by remaining silent.

xxx

In another of the inn's fine rooms, someone else struggled to sleep. The feather mattress and pillows, and the soft linens were so strange, so unfamiliar that Gubbitch could not settle. He missed his nest of straw, and felt isolated and lonely. Though he knew that friends slept in rooms nearby, each time he closed his eyes the city surrounding him loomed like a hostile giant.

In the streets outside, lanterns glowed and the heavy tread of soldiers heralded regular patrols. Were these normal, the orc wondered, or were they precautions against certain 'guests', himself included. Such speculation quenched any desire to escape the confines of the building so that he could freely breath the cold night air.

This was such folly. What did any of them imagine they could achieve? He had seen the fear growing in Erin and Sevilodorf, and knew the worries that plagued his other friends. Most of them had dined together in a private room downstairs, picking wanly at the vast platters of food; even the hobbit failed to finish what was placed before her. No one talked of tomorrow, of the hearing. They did not want to rehearse an event that they all wished to be over as quickly as possible.

And Gubbitch had not been the only one of the party to imbibe deeply of the local ale. Obviously not deeply enough, he thought as he turned in the bed once more, sheets catching on his rough skin and tangling around his limbs. What bothered him most, what probably bothered them all the most, was the prospect of unanticipated questions. These days Gubbitch tried to live by a code of honour, and that included being truthful. But there were some memories that he wished never to speak of. Being an orc with a long history, such things were inevitable.

If those questions were asked and if he answered fully and openly, he might not only cause the petition's failure, he might horrify and alienate his friends, losing them: losing everything that he had struggled so hard to establish and hold onto. Gubbitch pulled a pillow over his head, blanking out the faint lamplight that stole in through the window. An orc's hope dwelt in darkness, in the deepest, silent shadows where secrets hid.

xxx

Sev was very good at guarding her secrets, and in any other circumstance Anardil would allow her to keep them. On prior occasions he had let the matter drop because he sensed she was not ready to speak. Now, however, all his experience led him to believe she wanted to tell him. If he did not frighten her off, she would.

As she lay in the almost-darkness, silence deepened around her, like a rising tide. She could feel Anardil's warm breath, and almost hear his heart beating in rhythm with her own. Yes, her own heartbeat thudded loudly inside her, inside the engulfing quiescence. Words rose into her mouth, drawn by the void, but a sudden sound reached her ears as wood turned to ash and the embers in the hearth resettled.

"It won't work." Sev said suddenly.

"What?"

"I won't tell you." she replied stubbornly.

"Tell me what?"

He felt her mouth open to speak, then snap shut. Pushing herself up, she flipped her hair behind her shoulder, and leaned over his face to say, "You are a devious man, Anardil."

"True," he replied calmly. "And you, my lady, though I love you dearly, are an incredibly stubborn woman."

Sev's eyes flickered away from his. Sitting up she turned her back on him.

For a moment, he feared she was going to toss aside the blankets and run away; but when he said nothing and made no move, she lay down with her back to him. Turning on his side, he reached out and pulled her against him. Stiffly, she lay there; then as he traced intricate patterns down her arm and along her side, she relaxed. He buried his face in the softness of her hair.

"Sev, everything is worse when faced alone. Let me help."

"You can't. Nobody can."

"At least, tell me what it is." Her body tensed, and he tightened his hold slightly.

With a shuddering sigh, she turned toward him, pressing her face against his chest. "I won't be able to do it."

"Do what?" he asked mystified.

"Speak before the Council."

Rubbing her back in slow circles, he let silence again do its work.

"But I must. If I refuse to go, it will break all the agreements. Nik and Russ will become fugitives. But I won't be able to speak. I know I won't."

To Anardil's ears, the words sounded set and rehearsed, and he understood she had been thinking on this for many days and was now trapped in a never-ending seesawing between what to her appeared the only possibilities.

"Why?"

His question drew her up short, and she lifted her face to say, "Because."

Anardil shook his head, "Sevi, you must tell me a little more."

"I'll just stand there and stutter if I have to appear in a room filled with dried up old men and clerks who look down their noses at me. And no one will believe me, and that will accomplish nothing. All of Darien's and Lord Goldur's hard work will be for nothing. Don't you see?"

Anardil sorted through this outpouring of words. Again they sounded as if she had repeated them over and over in her mind. This was not a problem from just now, but one that had been with Sev for a long time. Something from the past she kept so private?

Hoping that she had reached the point where she would go on talking, Anardil asked, "Has this happened before?"

There was a slight pause, before she released another torrent of words. "Once. I was called to give witness before the Captains of the Westfold. I could hear the words in my mind. But they wouldn't come out. The more I tried, the worse it was," her voice sank away to a whisper. "And because of it, they didn't believe me."

Controlling the impulse to point out the lack of logic in her words, Anardil said gently, "And what happened?"

"Nathirem was sent away. Because I couldn't speak, he was exiled from the Westfold. Sent to the East. And I never saw him again."

"Nathirem? Your brother?" Anardil had continued his inquiries into distant Harad, but as yet no trace of Sev's brother had been discovered.

"Yes. It was my fault. If I had been able to tell the story, he would never have been sent away. If I had managed to stay out of Nathrild's way, it never would have happened in the first place. All of it was my fault. Nathirem would never have killed him if it weren't for me."

Anardil tightened his arm around her again as the pieces began to fit into a pattern only too familiar after years spent in shadows and back alleys. Striving to keep his voice even and emotionless, Anardil repeated, "Nathirem killed someone."

Sev went stiff and as silence fell between them once again, Anardil feared he had pushed too hard. Then in a small voice, and haltingly, unlike the rush of words she had given so far, she said, "Our cousin, Nathrild. Everyone knew why Nathirem did it. B…but no one would speak for him except B…Borgard. My uncle wanted Nathirem dead, but B…Borgard's testimony proved it was self-defense. So the captains would not agree to execution."

Then in a harsher voice filled with self-loathing, Sev said, "It was because I could not speak before them that they sent him away. Kinslaying, it was deemed. Exile was the punishment. If I had been able to explain they would have judged differently."

"Why is that, Sevi?"

If she were ready to talk he would not deny her the chance to rid herself of this poison simply because he did not wish to hear.

"Because…." The harshness in her voice was again directed at herself, and Anardil knew that nothing he could say at the moment would convince her it wasn't in any way her fault.

"Because," she repeated, rubbing absently on the long faded scar across her left cheek. "He did it for me. He and Borgard followed Nathrild into the hills. When they found him, Nathrild b...b…bragged about what he had done. Nathirem k…k…killed him because of me. He said it was his duty to protect me."

Sev took a deep breath. "What good did it do? It couldn't change what had already happened. All it did was make things worse. They sent him away and would not let me go with him. My uncle refused to release me to him. Insisting that he was my guardian as Nathirem was not of age. I didn't understand why until later."

"And why did he do that?"

For a few moments there was no answer as Sevilodorf recalled that long ago time, then slowly, she continued, "My uncle was always a cunning man. Not brilliant, but sly and greedy. There was still a market for 'damaged goods.' Never one to ignore the opportunity for a profit he made arrangements to sell me off. The buyer was one who was sure to be cruel enough to satisfy his desire for vengeance. As he could not reach Nathirem, he would wreak his revenge upon me. But chance stepped in, and I was saved that fate. My brother paid the price."

"Sevi, none of that…"

She interrupted him with a bitter laugh, "Was my fault. Believe me, Anardil, I've been told that before. And I've said the same to Anoriath and Elanna enough times in the last months that you would think I could believe it. And I do _know_ it, but some part of me continues to insist there was something I should have done differently to keep it from happening. Just as I know that if I had been faster or smarter, then Nik would not have killed Grady and this whole mess would never have been necessary."

"And now it's just going to happen again. I won't be able to do any more than stand tongue-tied and stuttering. They will stare and shake their heads and believe only what they want to believe. All of Darien's and the judge's hard work will be for naught."

"You can't know that Sev. That was long ago, was it not?"

"I was seventeen."

So young. Anardil clenched his jaw. He wanted to pull her close and swear that nothing would ever harm her again, that she would not have to talk to anyone she did not want to.

Deciding to try to lead the conversation onto a lighter plane, he said, "Dare I say that you are older and wiser now? Or will you slap me?"

To his relief, Sev lifted her head and frowned. "Is this what I get for asking for honesty from you? Being called old. Need I remind you, sir, that you are older than I?"

"I did call you wiser," Anardil said with a grin. The gleam in her eye told him she knew what he was doing and welcomed the chance to move away from this painful topic. Though now that it had been spoken of once, they would be able to talk more freely of it at a later time. It had been a long battle to earn her trust, but Sev was finally lowering her shields.

"That is the only reason I didn't slap you. You are entirely too impudent."

"So my mother always told me," Anardil said solemnly.

"Well, mine always said I was the sort that found rain on a sunny day. Amazing, how right they both were."

"Another thing, Mother said, was that things look better in the dawn after a good sleep."

"And don't I know just how much you've taken that advice to heart." Sev reached up to run her hand along his jaw. "I promise to stay right here, so you can go back to sleep."

"That is all that I ask," Anardil said placing a kiss on her forehead.

"You always make it sound as if you are so reasonable."

"And in what way is a request for you to remain abed in the small hours of the night to be considered unreasonable?"

"You do realize the fact that you consider a good sleep to continue to the noon hour might be deemed unreasonable."

"And rising before the dawn is any better?" Anardil retorted.

"I never claimed to be reasonable," Sev said primly, then poked him in the stomach as he laughed.

"And what is more, I do not insist, master sluggard, that you leave your bed and join me. Whereas you constantly scheme to cause me to neglect my chores and join you in your idleness."

"Nay, Sevi, I would never ask you to join me in idleness, for I am only too aware of that impossibility."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said with a smile. Then narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips together tightly, she shook her head. "You did it to me again, didn't you?"

"Did what? I didn't do anything," Anardil replied with an innocent expression.

"You devious man, one of these days…." As Sev poked him in the stomach once more, he caught her hand and carried it to his lips.

"Sevi, I am honored that you are finally willing to trust me."

"There you go again, making it sound so reasonable. Sugar-coating the facts. Anardil, you are a lacsar."

"And you love me for it," he claimed smugly, kissing her hand again. Then he softly kissed each finger and whispered, "Don't you?"

"Yes," said Sev plainly. "You know I do, so stop fishing for compliments and go back to sleep. I have promised not to leave, so you need not worry about having to search for me in these stone halls."

"And you must sleep as well. We will sort this out in the daylight. Together."

"Sey, ris," Sev said meekly before sliding down beside him.

"Now, that I don't trust at all." He pulled her into the curve of his body and yawned widely.

"What?"

"You agreeing so easily." He kissed the corner of her mouth as she twisted her head to give him an indignant look. "Sleep, _meleth nin_. There is no problem that the two of us cannot deal with together."

Her overwhelming dread began to recede. The tightness within her loosened and her eyes drifted slowly closed. How she would face the Council on the morrow, she was still unsure; but within the warmth of his love she could put away her fears for a time.

As he felt her relax into sleep, Anardil drew Sev closer and forced himself to put aside his anger at a man long dead. Briefly he wondered if her uncle still lived so that he might pay the man a well-deserved visit. That pleasure must wait for a later date; for now, he must consider the alternatives for the morrow.

Lord Goldur had gently sounded him out concerning Sev's reluctant attitude and had accepted reassurances that if she had said she would appear as a witness she would hold to her word. And in spite of the fears that plagued her this night, Anardil was certain she would at least try. Whether or not she gave into those fears during her testimony was the crux of the problem. He had long realized that Sev did not see herself as others saw her. Now, he understood a portion of her self-doubt. But what to do?

Tucking the blankets more firmly about her shoulders, he murmured a bit of what he had come to think of as Sev's rhyme, "In days of peril, firm and brave, and wear a bloodstone to her grave."

A twinge of an idea appeared in his mind and he repeated the verse slowly. Ah, perhaps, there was a solution after all. He would have to see to it before the hearing tomorrow. No, today, he thought with a yawn. From prior experience with the Council, he knew going into one of their sessions without enough sleep was courting the danger of snoring during particularly tedious moments. It was to be hoped that this hearing would be full of tediousness, for excitement in the Council chamber usually signified a proposal about to fail. Dropping a soft kiss into the shadow of Sev's hair Anardil followed her into slumber.

xxx

TBC ...


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

The room kept waking her up, Erin the hobbit finally decided, simply by being too big. As guests of the city she and her companions had been given lodgings in one of the city's best hostelries. Here clean sheets were put on the beds every night, meals would be brought upon request and at any hour, and the elegantly heavy draperies at the windows could be drawn against the morning sun to permit guests to sleep as late as they desired. Plus, tea would be waiting the very moment they opened their eyes.

Except, Erin sighed, in the wee dark hours of the night. Any sensible person was sound asleep right now. The hobbit sat up in her enormous bed and wrapped her arms about the thick coverlet over her knees. The curtains were only partially drawn so that a long sliver of starry sky was revealed, and in that pale light she could see the contents of the room. Two over-stuffed chairs: very comfy. Vanity table: not a particle of dust to be found. Shiny oval mirror: accessible to a hobbit only by standing on a footstool but utterly without flaw. Couch beneath the window: curved just right for curling up with a book. Bed: handsomely carved headboard with a wonderful squishy mattress draped in the coziest sheets and blankets.

And every bit of it overwhelmingly large to a little hobbit lass of the Shire. If there had been a clock in here it would have echoed like a gong, she was sure. How she wished Meri were here, if only so she'd have someone to whisper with until sleep came back to claim her.

Heaving another sigh, Erin abruptly swung her feet over the edge of the bed, grabbed her housecoat from one of the wooden foot-posts, and slid to the floor. A plushy thick rug gave way to cold stone as she padded towards the door. Peering out into the dimly-lit hallway she saw no one then she stepped out and pulled the door shut behind her. She was not sure where she was going, but she certainly was not going to sleep right now and perhaps there would be someone in the kitchen who could make her a bit of tea.

Other doors loomed silent and gleaming to either side as she passed. In silence she enumerated which was Sev and Anardil's, which was Lord Darien and Horus' and even which was Gubbitch's. That thought made her smile: a bent and crooked old orc sleeping on good linen. It would be hard to say who had been more scandalized about that situation, the head housekeeper or Gubbitch himself.

Erin followed her nose into the now-darkened common room. Long tables crouched in silence, the room illuminated only by low flames on the great hearth and a single lantern turned low on the mantelpiece. However, the aromas of meals long past still lingered like savory ghosts, and the hobbit found herself thinking of a sandwich or perhaps a plate of something to nibble. Yet would anyone be in the kitchen at this hour?

The kitchen was down a bit of dark hallway, as if the business of cooking was too uncouth to be within reach of the guests' ears or eyes. But there was no mistaking the wide arch of the doorway, once found. No sounds were heard and Erin peered around the corner cautiously. The kitchen was empty. The great stone-and-iron stove squatted in dim silence, though low heat emanated from it still, and the hobbit lass stepped into the room.

There, her mouth dropped as she stared about the kitchen, slowly turning to take it all in. A butcher's block the size of a small ship stood in the center of the room. Along the walls ranged enough counter-space to prepare a feast for a king. From the ceiling and above the stove, hung dozens of pots and pans, pots of all sizes, iron pots, copper pans, pots for sauces, pans for roasting and pots for stew. The biggest soup pot she'd ever seen stood in the cooking hearth at the far end of the kitchen.

"My stars," she breathed. "Why, you could feed the whole Shire out of this kitchen!"

"You might at that."

"EEPS!"

Erin squealed and leaped straight into the air, even as she spun to see who owned that rich alto voice. There smiling down at her stood a stout grey-haired woman with two round chins, a mole on her first chin and a grandmotherly smile adorning plump rosy cheeks.

"My apologies, Mistress _Periannath_," the woman said in that same warm voice. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Oh - it's all right." Erin could not help returning the woman's deep smile. "This is just such a wonderful kitchen. And my name is Erin. Erin Atwater. Of the Shire."

"I am Iliath," the woman replied, her smile raising the apples in her cheeks as she clasped both hands before her cushiony bosom. "I am the baker here. You honor us by your presence."

Head cocked in scrutiny, Erin blurted, "You look just like an oversized hobbit!"

Instantly her face flushed scarlet at her own impertinence. However, Iliath the Baker's laugh rang out in rich, golden tones and her wonderfully tubby belly jiggled with it.

"That, dear lass, may be the most generous compliment ever paid to me. Now, what brings you here when even the chickens are still fast asleep?"

Under that kindly gaze Erin's brief embarrassment fled and she let her shoulders droop. "I couldn't sleep. I think my room is too large."

"I know what you mean." Iliath cast a warm wink as she trundled past Erin and into the kitchen. "Sleeping is done best when one is cozy. Would you like some warm milk? Perhaps a bite of something to settle your stomach?"

"If it's not too much trouble …"

"Not a bit." Another warm chuckle tumbled forth. "Sit on that stool right there, as I am about to begin my baking and I'd hate to run you down, and I will bring you a snack."

Moments later, Erin sat swinging her heels atop a tall stool, with a plate of pastries on the counter beside her. She watched as Iliath stirred a small pan of milk on the stove.

"That silliness about being honored by my presence - does everyone know I'm here?"

"Not everyone," Iliath replied, and tapped the spoon before laying it aside. "But there has been a good deal of talk about you and your companions and your audience before the Great Council."

"Oh dear." Twisting her hands in her lap, Erin suddenly sounded and felt quite small. "This is a terrible great large town for there to be a lot of talk in. Surely one hobbit is not of much consequence."

"Now, lass." The baker cast a gently chiding look as she poured the steaming milk into a stoneware mug. "You must know that the Shire-folk are much revered in the White City these days. Masters Merry and Pippin are spoken of with great fondness among soldiers and common folk alike, and bards still sing of Samwise the Brave and Frodo of the Nine Fingers."

"Yes, but they were strong men-hobbits who did marvelous brave things in the war. I'm just one little hobbit lass who knows how to make strawberry crumbles."

Slippers scuffed as Iliath brought the mug and set it beside Erin with a gentle smile. "Is that what you think, child?" That unexpected pet-name brought a wistful smile to the hobbit lass' face before Iliath added, "The size of the body has nothing to do with the size of the heart, you know."

"I suppose." Pursing her lips, Erin picked up a plump sugared pastry and dunked it into her milk. "But I don't wish to be anything special."

"No." Iliath dusted her hands and began pulling down things to begin her baking: a great smooth board, large bowls, long-handled spoons. "But you are here for a special purpose, are you not?"

"I suppose. I mean, it's important I be here. Lord Goldur said I must speak the truth as I know it, and tell only the truth no matter what others try to make it sound like."

"Is it his counsel that troubles you?"

"Not really. Mm, this is good! It has sweet cheese in it."

Iliath smiled but made no reply as she began pulling bins from beneath the counter and started scooping flour out with a large pewter measure. Erin munched her pastry while she thought some more and washed it down with warm milk.

"I think," she finally said, "that I'm concerned whether the truth looks the same for other people as it does to me."

"Ah." Though Iliath's hands never ceased their labors, she glanced sideways at her little companion with a knowing nod. "Yes, that is a curious matter. Truth is never as absolute as we might think it should be."

"And I'm worried for my friend Sevi, too. She is mortified at having to talk to all these fine lords, and she would most likely rather be back home making spring tonics for us." Taking a sip of warm milk, Erin added, "Sevi is so brave, because that is what Rohirrim are, but I think it would hurt her very much if people did not believe her truth and honesty."

"Then if you are so fearful, why do you come to speak?"

"Because we must!" Instantly Erin sat up and aimed a stern look at the baker. "It is for our friend Gubbitch, who has been always kind and sometimes brave, and he and his lads saved Sevi when the cave fell in on them and those great, foolish Men had no idea how to fix the mess they started!"

Without pausing in her work, Iliath smiled. "Then you know why you are here. That is all you need, child. Now you must simply hold fast to your purpose."

"Hmm …" Erin turned her attention to her pastry and studied its golden plumpness.

Flour now dusted Iliath's chubby arms to the elbows, and she wagged a well-powdered finger at Erin with a kindly look. "Sweeting, many men live their lives never knowing a true purpose or a single just cause. You and your friends, however, believe enough to bring you all this way to Minas Tirith. Let that belief carry you just a little farther, eh?"

"All right." Smiling, Erin looked into her mug of milk. A sudden idea struck and she said, "You know, my mother used to make a very nice breakfast bread."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it has raisins and currants in it and a bit of honey, and you twist the loaves to look like short, fat braids. Then you brush it with a little sweet butter before you pop it in the oven."

"Do tell." Iliath dropped her chins to peer over at the hobbit, and dimples appeared in her own dough-like cheeks. "I don't suppose you know your mother's recipe?"

"Oh, but I do!" Suddenly Erin's eyes sparkled merrily. "I don't suppose you have raisins and currants?"

"As a matter of fact I do."

"Really? Well, then." The hobbit gave her most impish grin. "I could show you how to make Mama's bread, if you wish."

"You would spoil an old woman, lass." Iliath's warm, belly-jiggling chuckle sounded again. "Come, bring that foot stool yonder and stand beside me. This kitchen will be the envy of the White City if I can present our guests with halfling's bread for breakfast."

Thus it was that Erin sprang from her seat with a light heart, and set about aiding the baker of one of the finest kitchens in Minas Tirith. When the morning sun rose at last over the White City, the curtains in Erin's room remained drawn and she smiled in her sleep with just a little flour still dusted on her cheeks.

xxx

"And why does Darien want to see me?" Sev carefully folded the message delivered a few moments ago, and regarded Anardil with suspicion.

Pulling off a piece of the buttery bread stuffed with raisins and currants that the serving maid had curiously labelled 'Halfling Bread', he shrugged. "No idea. How would I know?"

"Something took you off at the crack of dawn, and I'm wondering if maybe you talked to him."

"I told you." Anardil replied patiently, while adding a large dollop of honey to his morning mug of tea. "I went back to my rooms to gather up more suitable attire. After all I was inadvertently detained last evening."

Sev tapped her fingers on the table as he stirred his tea noisily, but she was not to be deterred from her interrogation. "So you were. Did you run into Darien this morning or not?"

Staring at her with a hurt expression, Anardil asked, "Are you afraid I revealed to him your fears about the hearing? I would never do such a thing, Sevi."

"No, no," she exclaimed hastily. "I didn't say that, or even truly consider it as a possibility. It just seems … suspicious."

Anardil allowed the hurt look to deepen, an expression frankly ludicrous on the stern face of a Ranger, then remarked, "Well, if you don't trust me ..."

Sev started to deny any lack of trust, then stopped and cocked her head to one side. "You are being too evasive. Therefore you met Darien, but have no intention of telling me why."

"So what will you do?"

Shrugging, she exclaimed, "Go meet the man. Did you expect anything else?"

Grey eyes sparkled with laughter as he said, "It was fifty-fifty whether you would go to appease your curiosity or stay away of stubbornness."

"And which of you wagered I'd stay away? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

Leaving him chuckling at the small table, she took one final glance in the polished metal of the mirror before slipping her bloodstone bracelet on her wrist. She had carefully arranged her hair in a crown of braids and wore a dark blue velvet overtunic with the symbol of her Rohirrim family on the right shoulder. Embroidered with silver threads, the crescent moon above the stylized horse's head and the three slashes representing truth, knowledge and justice shimmered in the early morning sunlight. A proper lady of means she looked; now if she could just convince her stomach and her wayward tongue to behave she would survive the day without embarrassment.

"I will meet you downstairs then?"

He merely flashed a guileless smile as he pulled off another piece of 'halfling bread' and replied, "Of course, _meleth nín_, I'll be there shortly."

With a barely audible exclamation concerning men who liked to play games, Sev left Anardil to complete his breakfast and hurried down to meet Darien in the small, enclosed courtyard at the rear of the inn.

xxx

Sev supposed she should be tolerant of the stunned expression on Darien's face as he realized who had addressed him. After all, she had required a double take to recognize him. His deep green robes over the stark black tunic served to make him seem not only taller, but also rather unapproachable.

Recovering his self control, the Lord of Silverbrook said, "You look most elegant, Mistress Sevilodorf."

Biting back a caustic reply, Sev decided to accept the compliment with grace, and offer one of her own. "Thank you. And you look very lordly."

With a brief bow of gratitude, Darien offered his arm and escorted her to a stone bench near a small pond where plump orange fish swam placidly.

"Have you found your bloodstone to be of virtue?" Darien asked with a nod toward her bracelet.

Momentarily dumbstruck by the unexpected question, Sev gaped at the man. Then flexing her wrist, she replied, "Whether it has been the application of comfrey or the power of the stone, my wrist no longer troubles me."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Sev raised an inquiring eyebrow, wondering where on earth, if anywhere, this conversation was going.

Reading her expression, Darien pressed on. "Have you heard of the properties of obsidian?"

As she slowly shook her head, he explained. "It is also known as the Mirror Stone because it reflects one's inner being, exposing weaknesses so that they can be recognised and dealt with. It helps with forgiveness, even of one's self. And it enables the mind to focus on that which matters most. Put simply, in the words of Celebsul, it can help transform darkness into light, despair into hope."

He plucked at an ornament fastened on his belt, lifting it free to hand it to Sevilodorf.

Taking the proffered object, she examined it closely. At the end of a delicate chain, a fine tracery of smooth wood embraced a black stone. The obsidian shone like glass and, in it, she could indeed see at least the reflection of her outer self. Touching the surface with her finger, Sev looked up, a question written on her face.

"Yes," Darien replied. "It has worked for me. Whenever I was full of doubt or worry, I held the stone tight, and my thoughts became clearer."

Sev stroked the stone briefly. "Then you will have its protection during the hearing. That is good." She held the ornament out for him to take back.

Darien shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back. "Much as I value it, I have no qualms about giving my testimony, and no need for the stone's assistance. You keep it until the council is over."

"What makes you think I need it?" Sudden anger sharpened her voice.

"Hold the stone." His eyes fixed on hers in a challenge.

For a moment, her chin lifted stubbornly and he expected her to refuse, then Sev clutched the obsidian firmly in her palm and glared back.

With a wry smile, Darien explained, "I would have to be blind not have noticed that the hearing worries you. And in the past few days I have often contemplated offering the stone. What is the most important; that your allies join you in the pretence that all is well? Or that you face the coming ordeal with all the weapons and armour you can muster?"

Scowling slightly, Sev opened her hand and looked again at her reflection. "It sounds to me that if you hold an obsidian for long enough, you start to turn into one. I'll delay that terrible fate for you until after the hearing."

Accepting that as the closest the Rohirrim woman was likely to get to a gracious acceptance of the stone, Darien made another formal bow. "Do you think that Mistress Erin would find it of use as well?"

Sev allowed the obsidian to dangle from its chain and swing slowly in the sunlight. One eyebrow quirked slightly as she studied it.

"Lord Darien, if you had several copies of this little ornament, I believe we would be able to recognize a substantial profit this morning."

xxx

TBC ...


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

The Great Chamber rang with voices as people found their assigned seats. On the right-hand side ranged the benches for the witnesses for the proposal; here the contingent from The Burping Troll along with a number from Henneth Annun made their way. Already in place were those from Deerham: the Guards, Gethrod and Tilmith; and Avis, the widow. Beside them, an unlikely pair from Tumladen: the imposing Ukrosh and the miner the uruk had rescued.

Clad in the garb of a middle class merchant, Anardil both resembled half the spectators present and by such dress gave excuse for the travels his testimony would soon touch upon. Quietly he took the seat directly behind Erin the hobbit and to the left of Sevilodorf, so that he might have an unobstructed view of the Council chamber. He watched with faint amusement as Cameroth warily bent to seat himself beside Gubbitch and started with visible surprise at the orc's friendly greeting. Fumbling, the innkeeper returned a response in kind. While not a witness, Cameroth had given permission for Jasimir to speak and accompanied his son from Henneth Annun.

The boy however seemed to be the one in command. Having directed the two orcs from The Black Cauldron to sit to his left, he then guided his father to a place behind him and motioned Farmer Tiroc to follow. Cullen took a seat to Jasimir's right and sullenly slumped down to sit twisting a strand of hair. During pre-hearing preparations, Lord Goldur had confessed to being undecided about whether to call Cullen to the witness chair, though in Anardil's opinion it would be a waste of time. As far as he could tell, the young man possessed few original thoughts and the unfortunate habit of saying whatever he thought would please the person he was speaking to.

Looking across to the left side of the hall, Anardil watched the opposing benches fill quickly with an assortment of strangers, some seeming like lords, some soldiers, and a number of less well-dressed people. There was also a dwarf.

The large, central area provided seating for an invited audience of civic dignitaries, mayors, chieftains and, most importantly, a number of Ranger and Guard captains; these were the people expected to uphold any law that might be passed this day. A further few were representatives from other kingdoms including Rohan and Dale.

Searching the crowd, Anardil found the stoic face of Esiwmas of Rohan staring at him. When the trader glanced toward Sevilodorf, Anardil gave a small shrug. He knew that the Rohirrim trader was having a difficult time understanding Sev's reasons for agreeing to testify, especially as she was so obviously distraught about doing so. Yet, the man had shown the depth of his quality by gifting his cousin with the tunic she wore. The family crest upon the shoulder acknowledged her publicly as a member of Esiwmas' family, proclaiming her entitled to its loyalty and support no matter what strange cause she embarked upon.

Reaching out Anardil lightly touched the hands Sev held clasped tightly in her lap. For a brief moment she loosened her fingers and he could see the gleaming blackness of the obsidian ornament on its finely carved wooden chain. Lifting his head, he met Darien's eyes over Sev's head. If, as the elves believed, the stone possessed the power to absorb negativity, then it would provide a much-needed shield. And if it proved to be only a talisman, it still might serve as a means for Sevilodorf to find the strength to overcome her fears. Either way, it would have been worth the effort to form their conspiracy.

The velvet chairs behind two paper-laden desks, and the central dais with seven high-backed seats, remained unoccupied until every other person in the hall was settled and silent. Then the sturdy, wooden witness chair was carried in and set before the dais.

When stillness held the room, the clear voice of an official announced, "The Grand Council."

All heads turned as King Elessar, tall and stern-faced, led in the regal panel. Erin's gasp was audible as her wide eyes fixed upon his noble form, striding with the leisurely grace of a lion. In his sombrely elegant court robes and a silver circlet upon his brow, he seemed remote as ever a king could be and she shrank somewhat in her seat. Following Aragorn were Prince Faramir, along with a fine-looking man that Celebsul's quick whisper identified as Prince Imrahil, and four other high royals of the Kingdom. They walked briskly, mounting the dais and turning to see their lord seated before taking their own places.

The official called out again, "Council for the Proposal, Lord Goldur. Council for Opposition, Lord Valthaur."

Goldur strolled into the hall and, behind him, the ample figure of Valthaur. Both men wore long robes of deep blue. Once they were seated, each of the judges gestured for their assistants. From the left-hand benches, three young men stepped forward bringing small stools to sit alongside Valthaur's table. From the right, Kerwin ventured sheepishly out, his tall, thin frame clad in what looked like leftover black draperies that only made his face paler and his brown eyes larger. So intent was he on a dignified entrance that he managed to knock his stool over with a startling clatter. Directly he dropped a sheaf of papers with a leathery whap, and low chuckles rippled about him before he finally composed himself, set his stool straight and sat at a right angle to Goldur. This episode lightened the mood slightly as some in the hall smirked at the young man's clumsiness. Kerwin cast a hasty glance over his shoulder to where Aerio sat in shadow at the far end of the benches. The young elf nodded encouragement; he would be there in a flash if needed.

A third time, the official's voice rang out. "Let the debate begin!"

Lord Goldur rose to his feet. The manner in which such events were conducted had been established by and enshrined in history. Justices and Grand Council knew exactly what was expected of them. Thus Goldur opened the hearing by reading out the basic proposal:

"Lords and gentlemen, citizens of the realm. In this the third year of the reign of Aragorn, the King Elessar, the Grand Council has convened to hear a petition regarding the granting of legal rights for orcs. In this hall today we shall hear evidence, for and against the petition, from citizens of this realm …"

Of the many who harkened, each bore their own thoughts or fears. Darien heard the familiar words, the very words he had so laboured to shape, but the cool, impassive faces of the royals on the dais held his attention. These were the men who would listen with impartiality to the debate and, at the end, retire to consider their response to the evidence. They would not find against an overwhelming argument. If Valthaur was as powerful a council as rumoured, he could certainly sway opinion strongly against the rights of orcs.

A few feet away Cullen hunched, pale-faced. He dare not breathe a word in these solemn surroundings, but he wished he could tell someone. He had seen, nay, met Lord Valthaur once; an occasion he would never forget; that was the man with the grand house in this very city, the man to whom he had delivered Margul's mysterious package. What this might portend he could not imagine, but the very thought of Margul associated with a lord of such power was enough to freeze his heart.

Erin fidgeted on the uncomfortable, wooden bench. It was not in her nature to sit still and quiet. She wanted all this to be over, and for Gubbitch, seated alongside her, to have the same rights that she enjoyed. Nothing else would have persuaded her to endure this ordeal. She glanced up to catch the orc's eye. He grimaced back at her, though what that expression meant she could not guess. The hobbit suddenly felt a little ashamed. How much harder was this for him? He scarce even spoke the same language. She had known Shirriffs and the like - law and order. He knew only the chains of thraldom and the few rough-and-ready rules he himself imposed upon his band. Glancing now to Celebsul, at her other side, she saw his intense concentration on every word that the judge uttered. A sudden sadness gripped Erin's tender heart as she realised that here the ancient races of elf and orc sat in silent submission to the wills of men.

At length Lord Goldur finished speaking. He settled back into his chair as Lord Valthaur struggled to haul himself from his. Any mirth that the sight of the man's bulk provoked in those who did not know better evaporated the instant that Valthaur started to speak.

"Rights!" That single word rang like a bell's tone about the high-vaulted chamber ere he continued. "Rights for _orcs_! Legal protection for creatures more savage than wolves;" he paused for a short gasping breath; "more numerous than rats, bred for cruelty, with no conscience or compassion." He took another breath, this time deeper and longer. "Let me tell you a cautionary tale, and a true one. A man managed to get himself a wolf cub - a cute little thing. And he reared it like a child, made it into a tame pet. Well, he thought he had."

Valthaur waited for a moment, staring around the room. All eyes were fixed on him. He resumed his speech. "So … it was a shock when the beast ripped off his hand, the very hand that fed it. And the situation could have been worse, if someone had not been there to skewer the creature. He had raised it like a child, but it was not a child, and no manner of upbringing could erase the true nature of the beast."

Taking out a handkerchief, Lord Valthaur mopped his forehead before continuing. "Yet a wolf is a creature of the Valar, an enrichment of the world for us to behold in awe and at our peril. If we are giving out rights, give them to wolves. Orcs are the evil spawn of the very enemy of the Valar; the foul, corrupt being whom Eru cast into the void. And here we are considering holding out a hand of friendship to something infinitely more deadly than a wolf, and utterly alien to this world - wherever their soulless bodies were born."

As the lord paused for breath, murmurs of agreement hummed around the hall. They stilled the instant Valthaur opened his mouth again.

"Lord Goldur has said that orcs are sentient beings and therefore entitled to a chance to live peacefully. I say that the very fact they are sentient makes them more truly criminal than any creature without logic and language. They do not mindlessly kill, they murder. They carry out acts that no other animal would be able to imagine. Every orc that ever lived has pillaged, maimed and murdered, through choice, not just soldiers but women, old men, children, babes in cradles, and even themselves, when it suited them. Not only killed, but cannibalised. We all know this, so why are we here? Why are we having this debate?" He shook his head, his expression and gestures implying that everyone in the hall, himself included, must be insane.

Then Lord Valthaur rested his hands on the table, leaning his heavy mass forward. "But we _are_ here. And we will listen to the witnesses for each side. Orcs will speak in the Grand Hall of Minas Tirith, as unthinkable as that is. Those who believe there is such a thing as a tame orc will also have their say. We will be treated to a spectacle that we can, hopefully, recount to our grandchildren. But surely, surely by the end of the day, no matter what is said and by whom, the idea of giving legal recognition to creatures who by their very nature are lawless, will still be the utter folly that it seems at this moment."

Shouts of 'yes' and 'true' rang throughout the hall as Valthaur struggled back into his chair.

From behind steepled fingers, Faramir looked out from the dais. If the mood in the hall did not change during this day, then it would indeed be utter folly to find in favour of the petition.

xxx

The opposition witnesses were called first, and the tales they told made sorry hearing. As Darien listened to first one then the next, his heart began to sink. None of the accounts were a surprise, for he had discovered many similar in his investigations. Furthermore, he once lived through terrible orc raids on his own holdings where many of his friends and family had perished. It had been those bitter losses that compelled him to lead his company on the ill-fated campaign against orcs: a chain of events that brought him to this very situation. But the sheer weight of the misery recounted in the opening testimonies stifled the hall, driving almost all who listened deep into anger. Most of the glances turned towards the orcs in the right-hand benches glittered with hatred and loathing.

Something else began to disturb Darien. Whenever Valthaur finished interviewing a witness, Goldur would make only the briefest of cross-examinations; the judge for the proposal challenged none of the accounts. It took a while before Darien realised Goldur's tactics: get the opposition out of the way as soon as possible, to give more time to hear the more favourable testimonies of his own witnesses. It was a wise move, but Darien doubted very much that Valthaur would be so easy a cross-examiner.

By mid-morning, it was time to find out. It was now the proposal's turn; Lord Goldur summoned Darien as his first witness. The Lord of Silverbrook sat before the dais and calmly answered a stream of questions, revealing the events by which he had finally come to accept that some orcs deserved a chance to live. Much of his account proved a personal embarrassment, but he told the truth as best he knew how.

Thus the audience heard how Darien led a group of orc hunters into Northern Ithilien in search of a known band of orcs. Failing to find their quarry, they attempted to follow Sevilodorf the Trader hoping she would lead them to the orcs. Things got out of hand and Sevilodorf became a captive of the hunters, then many of the group were trapped inside a cave by a landslide. Only the united efforts of the orcs and their friends from The Burping Troll Inn, working alongside the orc hunters, managed to free those who remained alive inside the cave. As Darien reached the end of his testimony, explaining how he had learnt respect for Gubbitch's lads, he girded himself for what would surely follow.

xxx

Goldur stepped away, and the opposing judge advanced; his vast presence as intimidating as a mûmak.

Valthaur's opening attack rumbled like thunder from his deep chest. "So, Lord Darien, you committed a crime. And now you think that if we can forgive orcs their atrocities, the deaths and injuries you caused might seem trivial in contrast. Is that it?"

"No it is not! I made the mistake of thinking I could judge all orcs in the same way, and that anyone who dealt civilly with them must be at best misguided or, more probably, evil. It was not my actions that changed my mind; it was those of the orcs I sought to kill. They proved themselves to be true to their friends amongst men and elves, and even to be forgiving of their enemies."

Valthaur's eyebrows rose. "Admit it, you feel little better than an orc yourself. Any nobleman who caused such carnage would think the same. Was it not your fault that your friend and second-in-command perished defending a woman you allowed to be assaulted and kidnapped?"

Flinching as the law lord's words prodded at the unhealed wound, Darien confessed, "As the one in charge, everything that happened was my responsibility."

"Forgive me, Lord of Silverbrook, but I fail to understand your reasoning in requesting this hearing. Until recently you dedicated your life and resources to ridding Middle Earth of those very creatures you now seek to elevate. Your original cause, I might say, would find far greater favour with those we have heard give testimony thus far."

Darien nodded slowly. "Yes, and I could relate tales of equal horror. I do not deny that generations of orcs have committed the most vicious atrocities, nor the certainty of such incidents occurring again. But never before have orcs shown the desire to do differently. The destruction of the Ring has freed them for the first time in the history of their race. They are now able to choose their own road."

Valthaur's eyes briefly inspected the high ceiling. "Let us return to your crime. Is all this merely to appease your victim? Is this the payment that the 'misguided' trader demanded of you? To take up a campaign for the creatures she foolishly trusts."

"No, it is not. As I have already said, I arrived at the decision through witnessing the efforts of the orcs involved, through working with them and talking to them. Sevilodorf of Rohan laid but one claim upon me."

"And what was that?" Valthaur sighed with patient tolerance.

"To not waste any more lives."

"Ah! Then surely that means ridding the world of any remaining evil?"

"No, that is not what she meant." Darien's earnest eyes swept across the audience as he continued, "The time for vengeance is over. We must find a way to move past the hatred and attempt to recognise those who are striving to be good, no matter that they were once our enemies."

Wearing a look of utter astonishment, Valthaur stated, "You accept your oath is no longer to free the world of remaining evil." The law lord shook his head sadly. "What would your dead friend, Landis, think to that? Did he not perish in an attempt to avenge the death of his son, to free us all from the danger that Morgoth's and Sauron's minions still pose?"

"Where I meet true evil, I will still do whatever I can to oppose it. And I believe Landis would agree with the course I have taken."

"Really? Do you have evidence to support such a belief?"

"No, just an understanding of the man based on years of friendship." As Darien spoke out, his inner thoughts sought memories of Landis: the man's humour, his strength, his grief and, most of all, his sense of what was right.

"What? No deathbed wishes of forgiveness of his enemies?"

"I was not present at his death, so cannot relate his last words. For that you must ask someone who was there. But I do know that given the same evidence that I have seen, he would have shared my opinion."

"From that, I take it that all your hunters support your views. All would be happy to stand beside you and plead for legal protection for orcs."

Darien closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath. "No. Not all of them."

Once again Valthaur's eyebrows rose, as did both his hands in a gesture of disbelief. "You mean that you are asking the people in this hall to support a petition that you cannot convince your own men of?"

"Some minds will never change; grief, anger, hatred, the desire for revenge, the need for safety. But not only orcs provoke these. Many people will never find forgiveness for the men who fought with the enemy. It does not mean that we should sanction lawless vengeance."

"I see. It was acceptable for you and your men to slaughter with impunity, but now you would deny the rest of the realm the right to self-protection."

Darien ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the talent of this judge to twist everything he said. "Had it been against the law, we would never have embarked on our orc hunts."

"Your petition appears to be an effort to contain your own blood-lust." Valthaur's features wore an expression of distaste. "And if it is accepted, what would you suggest we tell the families of the next victims of these so-called 'tame' orcs?"

"That those who committed the acts would be made to pay; the same reassurance that any victim of crime receives."

Valthaur suddenly changed tack. "Were not you and your companions attacked by a cohort of orcs less than a month ago?"

"Yes, my lord, we were."

"Please explain, Lord Darien, how would we tell the difference between those such as your attackers and the others peaceful enough to deal with?"

"By their actions."

"In other words you suggest we wait until after they have hacked off your arm or slaughtered your friends … do not bother to reply to that. Instead tell me what proportion of mankind you estimate are essentially good."

It was Darien's turn to look surprised, but he struggled valiantly to supply an answer. "I'm not sure. Maybe seventy-five or eighty percent."

"I might put it lower myself." Valthaur conceded. "Now estimate the proportion of essentially evil orcs."

A trap lain by a master, Darien reflected ruefully. "Ninety-five percent?"

"And I would put that at one hundred percent. However, taking your figures, I would be willing to risk my odds amongst men, but I'd be a complete fool to hope the orcs I encountered belonged to the five percent that might just be trustworthy … even if I believed any were. You may return to your seat, Lord Darien."

xxx

Anardil arose at his summons and walked slowly towards the witness chair, a pace deliberately affected with the intent that his mind would adopt the calm his body manifest. Nonetheless, while his shoes padded polished stone his mind darted towards a dozen paths at once. A clink of metal drew his eye to the gallery; a short laugh shot his glance towards the doors; a flash of white drew his attention to Goldur's table - Kerwin shuffling sheets of paper in readiness. But meeting the calm, inscrutable gaze of his king jolted him firmly to where his wits needed to be.

Early on in their preparations Lord Goldur had explained to Anardil that his testimony would provide needed balance to the presentation, and also support that of Horus, whose account would undoubtedly be as suspect as that of the orcs. The law lord then sought permission for the ex-Ranger to testify before the council, his request granted subject to the condition that Anardil's position as a King's Man in clandestine service not be revealed by either of the judges.

When Anardil informed Sev that he was to be presented as a former Ranger turned merchant, she responded by asking if the Council had been advised of the "trading" he had done on the Eastern Borders. His indignant reply that the Council was exceptionally pleased by the results of their recent expedition had earned him a disdainful snort from his lady and a long lecture from Esiwmas on the finer points of trading. Clearly, diverting the near chance of war did not weigh in a trader's mind as keenly as profit turned, or lack thereof.

Now, settling into the witness chair, Anardil reflected on how disorientating the presence of an audience was. He had appeared several times before the Grand Council to report his findings as eyes and ears of the King, but those were sessions for only the lords of the Council, not open to the scrutiny and opinions of citizens. Shifting a little in his seat under several score of unfamiliar eyes, he decided it was infinitely easier being the observer rather than the observed.

Then he lifted his chin and drew cool composure around him like an invisible robe. The game of words had begun. In reply to Lord Goldur's carefully phrased questions, Anardil related his personal experiences with orcs. Precise, clipped words relayed his years as a Northern Ranger until his chieftain called the Grey Company south, finishing with a modified version of the events before the Black Gate when he had lost his arm.

"And since that time you have turned your talents to other endeavors?" Lord Goldur's eyes twinkled knowingly as he spoke the question.

With a wry grin, Anardil replied, "I have found I have a … small talent for trade."

The double meaning of the phrase was lost upon the majority of the audience. However, Anardil saw Sev bite her lip to restrain a smile, and some members of the Grand Council exchanged sidelong glances.

"Your work has taken you beyond the borders of Gondor?"

"I have traveled the Harad Road to its end."

"Have you found it difficult to treat with those who were once our enemies?"

"As with any group of men, some are honorable and some are not."

"Yet, they were our enemies."

Anardil raised an eyebrow and his low voice was firm. "Their leaders were swayed by promises made by the Dark Lord or by his threats."

"And what do you find now that Sauron does not dominate them?"

"That there are those who seek to live in peace, and those who seek to control others." He cocked his head slightly, a gleam in his grey eyes. "It is ever so with Men, is it not?"

"Yet, not all Men accepted the domination of Evil. Tell me, in your travels, what have you learned of how the Southerners view those creatures, who are not Men, that also served the Dark Lord?"

The former Ranger's tone remained bland as if he were reading a map. "As was true at The Black Gate, Sauron's destruction caused the majority of those creatures to go mad. Throwing themselves into pits or turning upon each other in wild frenzies. Of those who did not, many were slain by the Haradrim lords once they realized that Sauron was destroyed."

"But not all?"

"No, my lord, not all. Lords of Umbar and of Khand have taken some few into service. I have seen them. Others work on the corsairs, whether as slaves or of their own choice, I do not know."

Anardil's words caused a great stir with murmurs of "They will breed a new army." More than one suspicious look was aimed at the dark face of the Haradrim seated at Darien's side.

Lord Goldur gave a solemn nod and turned away to briefly gather his thoughts. "And have you had any experience with orcs within the boundaries of Gondor since the war?"

"In the last few months, my business …"

Aerio stifled a cough at the word and the elf turned his head to look back at Sev, who lifted her chin, pretending to ignore him. Business, indeed.

"…has taken me into Northern Ithilien and to the Inn of the Burping Troll, where I have come in contact with several orcs."

"And your opinion of them?"

His features were as graven stone as he replied quietly, "I sometimes find myself having great difficulty controlling the desire to draw a blade whenever they are near. Particularly if they come upon me unawares."

A low current of concurrence rippled about the room and went silent.

"Understandable. Yet, you control the urge?"

"I have attempted to model my behaviors upon those who reside permanently at the inn." He let his gaze touch upon Celebsul's fair, still face. "It has proven difficult at times, but there have been benefits in my dealings with those orcs."

"Would you counsel others to be so trusting?"

Anardil thought for a long moment then shook his head. "No, I would not. The orcs before you are the minority, exceptions to a rule. In any relationship with unknown orcs, I would advise constant guard. No one is certain how much their behavior is the result of years of thralldom and how much is due to their intrinsic nature."

Goldur turned towards him and sketched a short bow. "You echo the caution of Lord Valthaur, yet you temper it with a degree of toleration. Thank you for answering my questions, sir."

Lord Goldur moved back towards his chair, nodding to the opposition table. At this gesture, Valthaur stood and approached Anardil.

"Given your last response, why is it that you are here as a witness for the defence?"

Anardil's gaze did not waver. "Had you called me as a witness, my lord, I would have appeared just as willingly and said exactly as I have said. I have no trust for orc-kind in general, though I have learnt to live alongside a few."

"I see." The big man drew a rasping breath and paused to once again draw his kerchief, with which he dabbed briefly at his lip. Abruptly he fixed the former Ranger with a narrow stare, and his voice soared to resonant tones. "You are willing to live alongside those who cost you your arm and your service? You are willing to live alongside those whose swords were once wet with the blood of Gondor's knighthood? With the blood of your own brethren?"

Remembered anger mumbled through the hall in a passing wave, like a rumor heard from afar. Tiny muscles tightened along Anardil's jaw and his eyes and tone became steel.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Silence fell, deep silence in which unseen shoes scuffed, a cough was muffled, and something small dropped to the floor with a clink. The former Ranger might have been a stone statue as his one hand gripped the arm of the witness chair, for no caution had been laid against a question so simple - and so deadly - as this.

With a soft breath he lifted his gaze and deliberately sought out his friends and comrades from The Burping Troll. Sev's face was so very pale, Erin's half-hidden behind her small hand, while Celebsul met his glance with a strange, sad kindness. Last of all, he looked to the crooked, hunched figure of old Gubbitch sitting there, a scarred and ugly orc amidst the flower of Gondor's nobility and within Gondor's most venerable halls.

"I did not shirk my part in war," Anardil said, his words ringing in the vaulted room. "And I will not shun my place in peace."

His grey eyes swept the galley and the lords upon the dais like the pass of a levelled blade. "I am willing to live with those whose humanity at least matches my own. And in these, in these few …" He met and held Gubbitch's inscrutable regard. "I have seen compassion. I have seen kindness, and I have seen loyalty that reaches beyond their own race even to the race of Man."

An instant's pause, before he added more quietly, "Someone very dear taught me to reach beyond pain and darkness. If there be souls even among orc kind who also seek the light … then yes, I will live among them. With my doubts and all my misgivings, I will live among them, for such is how I live among my fellow Men."

The Great Hall sat silent until Lord Valthaur said silkily, "Your own compassion is to be applauded, though I fear you go too far. You may return to your seat, Anardil, son of Cirion."

Rising to his feet, Anardil nodded to the judges and composed himself to bow to the lords upon the dais. Ignoring the eyes upon him he returned to the benches with the same measured tread as he had left them. Easing his way past the seemingly serene Haradrim, who was to be called upon next, he noted Horus surreptitiously rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs.

"Caution, my friend," Anardil murmured. "He may look like a mûmak, but he thinks like a fox."

The Southerner gave a slow nod, and then stood as his name was called.

xxx

TBC ...


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

Not tall in comparison to the men of the North, Horus of Harad was nevertheless a warrior and moved with the grace of his profession. On this day he dressed as if for the court of his own Southron king, in a loose, wine-coloured tunic bound at the waist with a black sash, while a black cotton _hattah_ was wrapped about his head. If he felt the stares of every eye in the room, he revealed no more discomfiture than if he were a great cat pacing before pigeons. At the centre of the room he halted and, touching his forehead and breast as he bowed before the dais, he waited until the bailiff waved him to the chair.

Once seated, he might have been a lithe, alien statue with keen dark eyes, until Goldur stumped his heavy way to face him. There Horus inclined his head and offered the same odd little gesture of salute, ere the barrister spoke his first question.

"Tell us, Horus of the House of Narâk, how came you to these lands from your home in Far Harad?"

The liquid accent of Harad echoed into perfect stillness. "I came under the banner of the Black Serpent, for our lords had called us to war upon Gondor."

Goldur's expression remained kindly, as he folded his hands across his ample middle. "And what did you here?"

"I fought upon the Pelennor Fields," was Horus' unflinching reply. "Until the Rohirrim overran us and our captain was slain. I sought to die with him, for the spears of Rohan were fierce and terrible, but such was not my fate."

"Did any others of your company survive?"

"No, lord." The gentle intonation softened to deep sadness. "I alone was left with my shame."

"Shame?" Goldur's plump face registered perplexity. "What shame was that?"

"That I did not die with my kinsmen."

An undefined whisper seemed to pass about the room, as Horus kept his steady gaze upon his inquisitor. Goldur paused only a moment.

"Yet you stand now in Gondor's halls of justice, and yonder sit several captains of Rohan. Do you bear any anger towards those victors?"

Beneath the _hattah_'s folds a faint crease marred Horus' smooth brow. "Why anger, my lord?"

"For the death of your comrades?"

"No, lord. It was a good death." His chin lifted as he met Esiwmas' eyes across the room. "I have faced no foe more worthy than the Riders of Rohan."

With a few more questions, Lord Goldur drew forth an accounting of how Lord Darien had found the Haradrim all but dead from fevered wounds, several days after the final battles, and had taken him into his own household to be nursed back to health. Horus' sense of indebtedness was such that, after an attack by a group of marauding orcs, the creatures once allied with his own Southron kinsmen, he had joined the Silverbrook Lord in his mission to hunt orcs. Now that Darien had chosen a new path, Horus' loyalty remained unshaken.

"Do you not dream of a return to your homeland?" Goldur asked finally. "Do you not find your bonds of loyalty chaffing, if they hold you here where even the stars are strange?"

To that Horus simply gave a soft, sad smile. "No, lord. I am dead to my clan and kin. Let them live in peace. I will dwell here where my allegiance is sworn, until death takes me or my lord releases me."

Whether the echo to the ancient oaths of Gondor was deliberate or not, none knew. But thoughtful eyes observed the dark man with renewed interest.

Lord Goldur now moved the subject on to the matter in hand. "During preparations for the war, and on your journey towards Gondor, you came to know many orcs. What opinion did you form of these allies?"

"I … we the tribe, first thought them despicable: ugly, without grace. But they proved strong and fearless, qualities of value when marching towards battle."

"And how were they in their dealings towards men?"

A single slow blink then Horus responded, "Better than with each other. They did not understand men, but they were trained to treat us with dignity."

"Please explain why, after the war, you hunted down these former allies?"

"I learnt that the men of this land are not evil people, as we had been told, but rather that evil was the domain of the Dark Lord and his creatures. Lord Darien wished to erase the savage orc packs that still roamed and pillaged."

Goldur gently probed further. "Now you turn full circle and contend that not all orcs are evil."

"A man who does not learn throughout his life is all but dead. I knew there were great orc chieftains. I have learnt that some turned aside from savagery, and under their rule other orcs can change. But this you will hear best from those leaders."

"Yes, we hope to. Thank you for your testimony, sir." Lord Goldur nodded and turned away towards his seat.

Then, Horus watched Valthaur approach with the same care he would use watching the approach of a desert jackal, a beast that would circle another's prey endlessly searching for the one opportunity to leap in and snatch it away. Yet there was power in that heavy form and dangerous wit behind the bland, fleshy face; a combination stolidly dangerous as a mûmak, just as the one-armed Ranger had warned.

"You are Haradrim, Horus of the House of Narâk." Valthaur's sonorous tones rang to the vaulted ceiling. "You came to these lands under banners of war, as an enemy of Gondor. What word can you give, what oath can you swear that we may believe as voucher for the truth?"

"I swear upon the name of my House, and upon the blood of my fallen brethren, that I shall bear only truth and faith." He lightly placed a hand to his breast and bowed in his seat. "May death take me quickly if ever you find me false."

"And this is your bond?"

Horus' dark eyes reflected tiny points of light. "My honor is still my honor, whether I stand in the house of my father or in the hall of my enemy."

Lord Valthaur waved a hand toward the dais. "Are we your enemies?"

"I have no enemies."

"None?" Valthaur's raised eyebrows heralded his disbelief. "A rare man it is who can claim no rival at all."

"One who was my enemy spared my life. Therefore my life is his, and whom he loves, I love."

"And those whom he hates?"

"I will do as he bids for I am his to command."

The jackal was circling now, Valthaur's words the keen fangs that would rend his prey bit by careless bit. "As Lord Darien bid you to ride with him on his personal crusade against the orcs who lingered in the wilds of this realm."

"Yes."

"If your debt is as you say, did you not thus hate his enemy, the orcs?"

"I smote his foe when battle was joined. I did not hate them."

"Yet you have sworn your life and loyalty to this former adversary, claiming his enemies as your own."

Horus nodded and bowed his head solemnly in agreement. "I have sworn my life, my loyalty and my death, when one day it comes."

"I see." Valthaur turned towards the gallery with eyebrows raised, though his words were directed to his witness. "The nobility of your allegiance is daunting for a man so humble as I. But I must ask you, how is it possible to swear your very all to the man who spared your life, and yet serve him without sharing his hatreds or his enemies? I'm afraid I find that a bit conflicting. Have you no opinions, no convictions of your own?"

"I keep my honor."

Lord Valthaur frowned and lifted blunt fingers to stroke his several fleshy chins. "Ah. But you must see how it is difficult for me to accept whatever testimony you may offer in the matter of orcs as … factual, if it appears you are willing to do whatever your master asks of you. Even, perhaps … lie?"

"I do not lie." A hint of steel under-laid the singsong pattern of the Haradrim's declaration.

"Forgive me." Valthaur instantly waved off the thought as if unworthy, but his gaze narrowed shrewdly. "However, if he were to ask you to simply … bend the truth a little, would you do so?"

"Lord Darien would not ask this of me."

"But if he did?"

"Lord Darien would not ask this of me," the southerner repeated firmly.

A pained, puzzled smile found its way onto Valthaur's face. "Help me to understand, Master Horus. You say you have sworn your service, your life and if need be your death to Lord Darien. In the face of his enemies you will do his bidding - even to taking lives. Is this not so?"

"I have fought at his side."

Forefinger raised as if making a notation, the law lord stated, "You will wield a sword at his command, you will ride into battle at his call, and you will willingly die if he orders you forward into peril. Is this not so?"

"Yes, as fate wills it."

"Yet if he were to - for amusement's sake let's just suppose he did - order or ask you to bend the truth a little off-center, to elaborate on just a few details, would you decline?" A conspiratorial twinkle appeared in Valthaur's keen eyes. "Even if that little white lie might promote a cause dear to him?"

The Haradrim's reply, however, remained as stoic as the set of his smooth, dark features. "I have sworn to you the truth. You shall have only the truth."

"And in these strange oaths you have named … I am to rest my trust?"

Horus turned his face toward those seated upon the dais. "Ask your king if he trusts. I will swear the same oaths to him by name, if it is asked."

"That will not be necessary." Taking a quick breath, Lord Valthaur wiped his forehead. "Very well. Let us return to the matters of orcs. They were once your allies, then your enemies, or rather the enemies of your master, now they are again your allies, at your master's behest. Is that correct?"

"No. There are no enemies or allies. The war is over."

"Is it, I wonder, when the tools of the Dark Lord can still twist minds to their allegiance." Without waiting for a response, the judge abruptly changed directions.

Lifting his head with a stern look, he said, "Just one more matter; were you part of the band of orc hunters that held Sevilodorf of Rohan captive?"

"Yes, lord."

"And would such an action be considered honourable in the distant lands of Harad?"

"No, my lord."

"Yet you did so in answer to orders from Lord Darien, who is now seeking to appease his own conscious by taking up a fool's mission." Valthaur took a step back, and in the withdrawal of his heavy form was suddenly a grim finality. Triumph glittered in his eyes as he said, "It seems then, that though you profess to keep your honor, you are willing to set it aside upon request. I fear that, for myself, this makes all that you have said suspect. You may return to your place."

The jackal turned away, leaving Horus stricken and silent in his chair. For an instant he seemed to not even breathe, his gaze fixed blankly straight ahead. But then he gathered himself with the same fluid grace as he had sat down, and paced noiselessly back to the benches. As he sank into his place beside Darien, however, he bent his dark head into his hands and the arch of his back was rigid as a drawn bow.

xxx

Farmer Tiroc stumped to the chair at the same shambling pace as he went to milk his cows. Once seated with his work-worn hands placed firmly on his knees, he managed to give a credible, if somewhat stolid, testimony concerning orcs as farmhands. He quite neatly avoided the spectacle of the three previous witnesses by the simple means of repeating every question asked of him twice and replying very slowly. Lord Valthaur appeared only too glad to dismiss him and end such a dull line of questioning.

Upon his return to his seat, the farmer nudged Cameroth and whispered, "Technique I use with the missus. Get to say what I need to at my own pace."

The innkeeper nodded and quirked his mouth in the semblance of a grin, but his eyes and attention were fixed upon the lanky form of his youngest child, now seated in the witness chair. Though dressed in sombre colours against his usual wont, of all the witnesses called for either the opposition or the defence, Jasimir was the only one thus far who had settled into that chair with a smile upon his face.

"Tha lad'll do reet well. He's a good 'un."

Cameroth jerked in surprise at the gruff voice coming from his left. Almost he asked how and when the orc had gained that impression; then he decided it was something he was better off not knowing. Jasimir had proven capable of handling himself, so he would leave it at that.

"Yes, he is. Takes after his mother," he managed to reply.

A hand upon his shoulder caused him to turn in his seat and meet the solemn smile of Sevilodorf. She leaned forward slightly and mouthed the words, "After his father as well."

Slightly embarrassed, but pleased, Cameroth focused upon his son. In moments, Goldur guided him to a retelling of the tale of the orc attack outside of Henneth Annun, which the lad delivered with perhaps more drama than was entirely proper in a courtroom. His dissertation was as breathless in recounting the orcs who had charged to the rescue, as when he spoke of Horus or Darien in the fight. He did, Cameroth noted, diplomatically omit mention of the friendly warg who also aided in the fray.

Yet, listening to the boy, there was nothing in his tale that Cameroth could find to dispute. In fact, there was even more that could have been told about how Corbat and Lorgarth had subsequently refused any reward for their deeds. Insisting that they had an agreement with Drath of the Black Cauldron that they would honor, Lorgarth had even refused the offer of a job with the local farrier.

When the tale was done, Lord Goldur asked Jasimir if he had been engaged in any other meetings with orcs. Cameroth felt a surge of pride as his son swallowed hard and looked toward him with apology, then gamely told of going with Sevilodorf to arrange transport of a load of semiprecious stones.

When the judge thanked the boy and retreated to his table, Cameroth found himself clenching his fists tightly. He had seen Lord Valthaur twist the words of those who had spoken for the defense. Making it appear that they were at the least misguided fools, and at the most men devoid of honor and without respect for those who had died at the hands of orcs. While Jasimir was none of these, he was still young, and Cameroth had no desire to sit silently while the judge attempted to turn his son into a fool before the court.

However, Lord Valthaur's questioning of the youth proved quite gentle, leading him over a few points again to clarify details of the ambush outside Henneth Annun. Jasimir stayed in good spirits throughout, exchanging smiles with the colossus. It was not until the final moments of the cross-examination that Cameroth saw the trap closing, and there was nothing he could do.

"A pity," Valthaur exclaimed, turning ponderously as if addressing the room at large, "that none of the attacking orcs were still alive to question."

"Yes, sir, it was." Jasimir bobbed his head with a rueful grin. "Lord Darien tried to stop Corbat killing the last one."

"But Corbat did so anyway."

Valthaur pivoted his heavy bulk to skewer the boy with coldly gleaming eyes. The innkeeper watched the smile slide from his son's face as realization dawned.

Swallowing first, Jasimir replied quietly with a simple 'Yes'.

"We must wonder at the reason for that." Valthaur looked towards the seated orc, who gazed back with a face as inscrutable as broken stone. "Was it uncontrollable rage which not even his leader could contain, or perhaps part of a pre-laid plan? Either way, these orcs do not look so 'heroic' after all."

The law lord turned a smile upon the youth. "Thank you, Jasimir. You have a wonderful memory and express yourself clearly. Well done. You may return to your friends and family now."

Sinking further into his seat, Cullen watched as Jasimir dropped dejectedly into place at his side. If this brash youth was unable to survive a confrontation with the judge advocate, what hope was there for him? The contents of his stomach surged upwards, and clapping a hand over his mouth, Cullen slipped behind the benches and fled the room. At the table for the petition, Lord Goldur signalled for Kerwin to follow the young man and smoothly turned to call upon Celebsul the Elf.

xxx

Following the directions of one of the guards stationed in the stone corridor outside the Great Hall, Kerwin found Cullen huddled miserably upon the edge of a stone fountain in the courtyard reserved for Goldur's witnesses. Carved with the image of a flowering tree, the fountain was the centrepiece for an intimate garden enclave whose very design invited a visitor to slow his pace, and the music of running water was a blessing to the ear. A pity that mere beauty could not so easily sooth Cullen's upset.

Pale faced and clutching his stomach, Cullen shook his head. "I can't do it. You don't understand. As bad as things are already, they'd be worse if I go up there."

Pulling out a pale pink handkerchief, Kerwin dipped it in the fountain's clear water. He gave it a twist then held it awkwardly in offering and said, "Here - this sh- should help. Put this on your neck."

He watched anxiously, thin hands clasped before him as the farmer's son distractedly followed his advice. However, the color did appear to be returning to Cullen's wan face, which Kerwin counted as an improvement. As its elvish designers had intended, the tiny enclave created with a charming variety of potted greenery calmed the hearts of those who occupied it, while the water of the fountain provided a counterpoint to their thoughts.

Dabbing at his mouth with the kerchief, Cullen said, "Things are not going well, are they?"

Kerwin's brown eyes widened. "To the contrary. Things are going exactly as Lord Goldur expected - as he planned for. You must understand. There is no - no getting away from the facts that orcs have been the - our enemy for several Ages. It is necessary for everyone to admit that fact - very important - before we can move on to the next point."

"And what is the next point?"

"The - the very one your father brought out."

"My father?" Cullen's shoulders slumped. "There was nothing interesting in what my father said."

Kerwin smiled and bent his thin frame to sit beside the other youth. "Exactly. Orcs as farmhands are not - they are not interesting to him. They are perfectly acceptable."

"But that judge…"

Cullen could not find the words to describe what had happened. He had been too lost in his own misery to see more than the fact that each person who had spoken thus far had been forced to reveal something they had not wanted to.

"Lord Valthaur is remarkable at his job, is he not?" Cullen stared dumbstruck, hearing the faint tone of admiration in Kerwin's voice. "He has seldom lost a case."

"But…"

"But Lord Goldur is just as highly regarded." Kerwin's eyes gleamed as his habitual stammer abruptly smoothed. "He knows well the ways of the opposition. Thus each report we have presented and each person called to speak has provided but a small piece of the puzzle. Separately they make nothing, but together the picture they create will show the truth."

"And what is the truth?" Cullen asked.

"That orcs are hideous, dangerous and have been among the greatest enemies Men have ever face. But…" Kerwin paused dramatically, "they are capable of choosing good over evil. That's what this is all about, giving those who desire it the chance to choose."

Cullen shook his head. "It's too much for me to understand. I just know I don't dare go before Lord Valthaur."

"Lord Goldur will understand." Kerwin said sympathetically. He gave a glance around, smiling at the music of falling water, and stood up, being very careful to keep the trailing edges of his sleeves out of the fountain.

"I, ah - I need to get back. Master Celebsul was to be the final witness - before lunch, that is. Perhaps you sh- should stay here. The others will join you soon for the meal Lord Goldur has arranged."

The only response Cullen mustered was a dull nod as he twisted the sodden kerchief around his fingers. Kerwin paused a moment, his fine features troubled. But there was no more to be said and he turned away, vanishing from the courtyard in a swirl of long black robes.

xxx

The hall remained in complete hush during Celebsul's softly spoken testimony to Lord Goldur. Very few of the Eldar now dwelt in Middle Earth and they were a rare sight. For those in the audience who once glimpsed the glory of Galadriel, Celebsul seemed more akin to lesser elves. For the greater number who had beheld the now-mortal Queen of Gondor, he appeared like a pale vision that might, at any moment, fade.

Yet Lord Valthaur did not adjust his technique in any way. When he rose to cross-examine, he asked, "You are one of the Eldar, hailing from Valinor?" in much the way he might have asked whether the witness came from East Emnet.

The corners of Celebsul's mouth curled into a brief smile. "Yes, though that was a long time ago."

"It is said that the Eldar can see into the minds of others. Is this so?"

"Some can, some cannot."

The law lord's eyes narrowed at this very elvish response. "What about you? Can you read thoughts?"

"If I chose to, I could;" a slight raising of Celebsul's chin caused a ripple of light to run through his silver hair, "though I prefer to respect the privacy of each individual's mind."

"Come now. No one with such a gift would spurn it. Would they?" Lord Valthaur included the audience in his question, seemingly counting the number of creased or raised brows, his chins wobbling at each small nod of his head.

He continued addressing hall, "This Eldar knows whom he can trust. He knows when he is safe."

Turning back to the witness, Valthaur observed, "You, sir, will be prepared when the wolf turns. We mere mortals have no such reassurance. Should we risk our fragile lives, being armed with lesser knowledge than the elves?"

"You take no more risk that I do." One of Celebsul's eyebrows rose, though his face remained otherwise expressionless. "Immortal lives have been lost in as dreadful a number as those of mortals. But now we withdraw and leave this world to Men. It is for Men to determine the future and what measure of justice they afford those who must continue to dwell here … or nowhere."

"Many of us might deem nowhere the better option when it comes to orcs. But maybe you could persuade us otherwise. At least read the mind of Corbat over there and tell us how safe he is."

Celebsul saw, without guile, that Valthaur did not believe this was possible. Casting his gaze towards the orc who winced at being drawn to the hall's attention a second time, the Eldar smiled his reassurances.

"I will do so, but only if he grants permission …"

Then looking back, stern-faced, at Valthaur, Celebsul's eyes kindled into bright embers, his appearance suddenly and subtly more alien, more fearsome than any orc. "And if you also allow me to read your thoughts. 'Tis only fair that I examine the hearts of both orc and man, to compare the two."

As the Eldar watched doubt flicker across Valthaur's blanched features, he stilled his inner flame. "No, my lord, no one wishes their soul laid bare for another to pick over the secrets they harbour. There are no easy options. You take the risky road of trust, kindness and bravery, or you choose the safe path of denial, cruelty and cowardice. All here proved their valour during the war, will they abandon it in the peace?"

Mopping his brow with his handkerchief, Lord Valthaur's composure returned. "As you say, it is for Men to make their own way now their ancient allies abandon them. For elves, there is a safe haven that no enemy can reach, no law allowing the presence of orcs will be passed in Valinor, I deem. Thank you, sir. I have no more questions."

A slight shake of Celebsul's head expressed sadness as he rose, tall and pale, then walked with silent steps back to the benches.

xxx

TBC ...


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

The official call to lunch was a welcome relief to everyone in the hall, though the rush to the doors was dutifully delayed until after the Grand Council made their stately exit. Erin the hobbit momentarily forgot she was hungry as she watched Aragorn, the King Elessar, stride past, with Prince Imrahil and Lord Faramir pacing handsome and grave to either side.

"Ohhh," she sighed. "I must write to Meri about this."

But only momentarily, for with the sudden stir of the crowd Erin's stomach abruptly snarled for attention.

As Kerwin led the witnesses for the defense to a narrow chamber, the sleeves of his black robes fanned out like the wings of a balrog, nearly knocking over a serving man carrying a gently steaming soup tureen. After apologizing profusely to the man and wrapping the overly long sleeves tightly around his arms, he crossed the room and pushed open two wide doors to reveal the courtyard where Cullen sat idly dangling his fingers in the fountain. The midday sun streamed in to brighten the chamber set with tables and an array of food suitable for an army of hobbits, but the music of water flowing over white marble drew them to the small courtyard to examine the graven reproduction of the White Tree more closely.

Here within shielding pale walls a wandering white-pebble path made a lazy circuit amongst stone planters, each bearing fragrant shrubs and small trees pleasing to the eye. Every bend in the path offered its own reward, whether small statues carved in restful shapes or large polished stones of curious hues. At either side of the courtyard a stone bench stood, each beneath the boughs of a different but no less lovely tree, and all were blessed by the liquid song of trickling water. Thus poor Cullen's visible unhappiness seemed quite out of place.

"Come on, son," Farmer Tiroc exclaimed striding up to the youth and patting his shoulder roughly. "You'll feel better after you eat some of that soup I see. Settle your stomach it will."

Cullen's faint greenness at the thought of food was swiftly replaced with the pink of embarrassment as his father continued. Now speaking conversationally to the others admiring the fountain, Tiroc announced, "Always had a nervous stomach, you know. Ever since he was a little lad, he'd get all upset and the first thing he'd do was spew up everything he'd eaten. Begging your pardon, ladies."

The gentle Avis gave Cullen a sympathetic smile and admitted, "I'm afraid a similar fate will befall me if I eat anything."

"Nonsense," protested the robust farmer, as he pulled Cullen to his feet with one beefy hand then went on to take the Deerham widow's arm with the other. "Got to eat to keep your strength up. Ask the lass." Tiroc nodded to the hobbit. "She knows the value of a good meal."

Erin smiled wanly and looked for a moment as if she were more inclined to agree with Avis. Then with a toss of her blond curls, she exclaimed, "Right you are! A good meal solves many problems, and that bowl of soup will do for starters."

Marching back into the room and up to the seat which, with its pile of red cushions, had obviously been prepared for her, the little hobbit flipped over her bowl. Sitting with an expectant smile, she waited politely for the serving man to pour out a helping of thick vegetable soup. Slowly sorting themselves into small groups, the others made their way to the tables, except for Horus. With a solemn bow and murmured apology, the Haradrim excused himself and took up the position at the fountain vacated by Cullen. Darien's troubled glance followed him, but then the lord of Silverbrook bowed his head and turned to the waiting meal.

In moments, at one table Cameroth sat with Gethrod, Tilmith and Avis listening to Farmer Tiroc tell a story made more complicated by his continual halts to urge Cullen to "Eat up" and pile more food upon the young man's plate. Another table held an intriguing combination of orcs and elves, as Celebsul and Aerio elected to gather together all four of the ungainly creatures. Seated between the mighty uruk-hai, Ukrosh, and lithe, fair Aerio, the miner from Tumladen stared in amazement from one to the other, as the two engaged in a detailed discussion of geologic forces and the mineral deposits that could be expected on the western slopes of the Ephel Duath. Meanwhile Jasimir simplified the matter of cutlery for Corbat by pouring the soup into a large mug and saying, "Drink up."

At the final table, the only ones doing justice to the food were the hobbit and the broad shouldered Rohirrim trader, Esiwmas, who had been invited to join the lunch. But even these two ate without speaking, and from the looks upon their faces, their thoughts were grave. After toying with the soup and shredding a roll into crumbs, Sevilodorf gave up the pretense of eating and excused herself to pace the confines of the tiny courtyard.

On her third trip past the fountain, Sev stopped abruptly before Horus. "He's wrong."

Dark eyes rose to meet hers, set in a smooth, impassive face. "No, lady, he is right. It was only that I have refused to see."

She began to speak again then stopped. The music of the fountain seemed to change, to grow melancholy as Horus slowly recited a stanza in Haradric. Listening intently, Sev waited until he was done.

Recognizing the phrases in the verse from Anardil's tapestry that hung on the wall of their room at The Burping Troll she translated from memory. "If truth is not whole truth, it is no more a truth; whereas there is no limit for lying."

When she received no response, she added, "Tell me, Horus of the House of Narâk, what is the whole truth? That you followed the orders of your captain? That you stood willing to place yourself between a madman and me, even though he was your comrade in arms? That we are all guilty of some blame in the matter?"

The falling sequined water reflected only dully in the Haradrim's eyes as he seemed to look inwardly and find no comfort there. Sev bit her lip, realizing she trod on unknown ground with a man who after all held ever so many secrets. Yet compassion bid her to speak again, quietly.

"Have your people no verses for forgiveness? For correcting the mistakes of the past?"

In the silence after Sev's question, Celebsul arrived like a ghost at her side. "I recall an ancient poem of men. The language is no longer spoken, but the sentiments were that he who climbs the unknown heights must sometimes stumble. It is not through carelessness, rather the difficulty of the chosen path."

Horus' dark eyes softened as he looked up from his seat, studying the ageless, flawless face of kindness now turned upon him. "How does one know," he asked softly, "if this stumbling path is the true one, and not the blind way of fools?"

"He stumbles because he does not choose the easy path," Celebsul replied. "Because he follows a true heart, and heeds the voices of honor and compassion."

"Master Celebsul, have you ever stumbled … and regretted it?"

A breath of humor escaped the elf and he smiled gently. "Many times, Master Horus. Many times."

"Do you think we are on the right path now?"

"I have no shadow of a doubt."

Slowly Horus nodded, his gaze drifting to the tinkling fall of water into the fountain's pool. "Then I will walk with you, and all who walk beside you."

Sev shook her head and gave a wry smile. "That is very good to know, sir. Now pray join us in a walk to the table? I fear Erin is about to become displeased that we are neglecting our meal."

From the doorway of the dining room a round face did indeed bear a growing frown. Horus' white teeth flashed briefly as he rose, and together they went inside. As the Haradrim passed to his seat, his hand dropped briefly to Darien's shoulder, startling his friend into a belated but no less pleased smile. Whatever came, they would still stand together.

xxx

Whether the result of Erin's cajoling or a natural response to the enticements spread before them, most of the company managed to eat something. Conversation, however, occasionally wandered to a halt, with each member of the company occupied with their own thoughts. Midway through the recess, while the hobbit was pondering the assorted delicacies provided for dessert, Sev slipped silently from the table and returned to the courtyard.

Attempting to keep her dismal thoughts in check, the Rohirrim healer settled upon a small stone bench and focused her attention on the greenery. Well-protected from the lingering chills of winter and filled with afternoon sun, the enclave was the perfect place for a garden. Stroking the dark green leaves spilling from the closest pot, she realized that each plant had been carefully selected for its ability to soothe the mind and refresh the spirit. At her touch, this particular plant exuded a clean, bracing fragrance that made her think of fresh winds blowing over high mountains. Drawing the obsidian shard from her pocket, she wondered why she still felt so confused.

At the soft crunch of feet on the white pebbles of the walkway, she looked up to find Erin clutching a piece of sweet pastry in her hand. Hiding a smile at the hobbit's obvious distraction, Sev made space for her on the bench.

"I will manage to eat this," Erin insisted, staring at the remains of her dessert with a slight frown.

Instantly Sev was ashamed. She had been so wrapped up in her own fears that she had spared little thought for her friend. "Are you worried about this afternoon?"

Erin flinched in surprise, and let the hand holding her pastry drop to her side. "Oh, Sevi. Yes." Her small shoulder slumped and she turned to hitch herself up onto the bench beside the older woman. "This morning was just awful: poor Darien and Horus. I'm so glad you spoke to Horus, as he looked so terribly lost and I just didn't know what to say. That Lord Valthaur! He turns everybody's words all inside out and upside down. What hope do I have of not being made to seem a silly little hobbit?"

Such a bleak summary of events did little for Sev's courage, but the hobbit looked so desolate she felt compelled to offer some comfort.

"You will do your best, Erin, and that is all any of us can do." Despite the brave words, Sev's voice quavered at the last and her hands trembled even though she quickly clasped them together.

Erin's eyes grew wide as she looked up at her friend. "You're terrified too?"

With a wry smile, Sevilodorf nodded her confession. "Yes, very much so."

The two friends sat silently, then gave identical sighs that caused them to meet each other's eyes with momentary amusement.

"A fine pair we are," Sev said. "We manage to survive an orc attack and I don't know how many other dangers; and we go to pieces over a mere man."

Erin frowned, "Well, he's an awfully big man."

Sev snorted, then said determinedly. "Yes, but still only a man. I have something that might help us."

"What?" Erin's eyebrows shot up in interest. "You've not taken to strong drink have you?"

"Not yet!" Sev laughed, but it was a brittle sound. Then forcing her hand to relax, she held the obsidian charm out.

Frowning thoughtfully, Erin picked up the stone and turned it in her palm, fingers lightly touching the delicate setting and the dark, glassy surface of its face.

Explaining the calming qualities of the charm, Sev gently closed the hobbit's hand about it. "You keep it until your turn is over, but don't forget to give it back to me after."

Erin grasped the stone firmly in her small fist and looked up with a smile.

"Thank you, Sevi. I think we'll be just fine."

xxx

Sira cursed as the horse once more slowed and dropped its head to snatch mouthfuls of tender grass. The sour taste of fear which had hounded her since she had made her escape again rose to fill her mouth. She twisted to look back down the road, certain that she would see a horde of orcs led by that despicable creature, Minna. But the road remained empty.

Ignoring the pain in her hands, she jerked on the reins and said, "Move it, you bag of bones. Can't you see the city?"

The animal lifted his head briefly, but returned to his nibbling before Sira had a chance to kick him into motion. Once again she glanced fearfully over her shoulder. She had no way of knowing how many hours she had wandered lost in the darkness after crossing the bridge at Osgiliath. Maybe it would have been wiser to stop at one of the recently opened small taverns, but she had been in no condition to think wisely at that moment. All she had wanted was to reach the city. Who knew how many people were like Minna, in league with Margul and aware of his plans? To her pain-filled mind it was best to go directly to the city. There were guards always on duty at the Great Gate, and then too, she knew people in the city who would protect her.

After repeated kicks and a flood of curses that would have made a riverman blush, the gelding heaved a sigh of weariness and plodded off toward the gates shining in the pale spring light. Relieved to be again moving in the correct direction, Sira slumped once more in her seat, wishing that Minna had not, at some point, removed the water bottle tied to the saddle. Sira's hope, that at least one of the farms here on the Pelennor plains would be occupied, proved forlorn.

"Blast them all!" she exclaimed, reflecting that the most likely reason for the emptiness of the road and cottages she had passed since the lingering morning fog had finally burnt away was that everyone had gone to the White City for the entertainment of the trial.

Slipping back into the daze in which she had spent most of her flight, Sira failed to notice the lone figure appearing in the distance behind her as she drew, step by plodding step, towards the main gate.

xxx

"What do you mean you don't understand? I've told you five times already! Was I not speaking in words simple enough for you?"

Sira's face matched her red curls as she raged at the stoic guards. Behind her the horse - the cursed horse, if she had to qualify its relationship to her - stood abandoned, its dull attention presently focused on whether or not it should amble towards a weed growing below the city gates.

"Yes, mistress," the tallest of the trio replied sternly. "But put yourself in my position. A hysterical woman appears on your doorstep demanding to see the King, claiming she has information about a plot to cut off people's heads and throw them over the wall."

Hearing herself described as hysterical did little to sweeten Sira's disposition. Neither did the veiled looks of amusement that passed between the other two soldiers.

Glaring about in frustration, her next demand was only one note shy of a shriek. "Is there no one here with more authority? … And some common sense? _They_ can't be that far behind me!"

The two silent soldiers surreptitiously craned their necks to peer along the road behind her. However, all they saw was the horse, which was now contemplating falling asleep where it stood.

"The sergeant has been sent for," the guard said patiently. "He's been up at the Great Hall all day, trying to keep the crowds quiet."

"The Great Hall?" Sira yelped in surprise. Then she recovered quickly and asked, "The orc trial. Is it still going on?"

"Yes, mistress. So far as we know," the guard responded, eager to encourage this strange woman in any conversation that quieted the shrillness in her voice.

Sira drew herself up as straight as her many aches and pains would allow. "Then you must hurry, for my evidence is vital to that trial!" Even if it weren't, she would at least be able to find Cameroth quickly.

"It is?" Pulling a well-folded copy of a list of witnesses from the pouch at his belt, the man seized eagerly upon the first lawful pretext he had to possibly be rid of this madwoman. "Why didn't you say so before?"

Thrusting her burned hands into his face, the barmaid's voice shot to a screech once more. "I was a little distracted, you fool! Now get me an escort to that Great Hall or I'll go myself! I was born in this city and I'm quite capable of finding my own way about!"

The thought of this wild-haired, Nazgul-voiced harridan barging into the highest halls of rule blanched all three soldier's faces. However, a new voice interrupted as the guard began to make quick excuses.

"That will hardly be necessary."

"Sergeant," the guard's voice was filled with gratitude. "I tried to tell her…"

The officer waved him to silence, his cool grey eyes taking in all at a glance. "I understand. Leave this to me."

Bending towards Sira, he lifted one of her hands and turned it gently to inspect the burns. "Mistress, the Houses of Healing would be a better choice than the Great Hall."

Taken by surprise at the lightness of his touch Sira gaped wide-mouthed for a moment. Then her native calculation kicked in, for he was a rather attractive, tall young man and she was not without her wiles. Widening her eyes, she tossed her head in a move designed to cause her copper curls to bounce attractively upon her shoulders.

With a winsome sigh - and a remarkable manifestation of near-dulcet tones - she said, "Yes, sir. But I've got to tell the Council what I found out first. Someone else could be picked out."

"Picked out?" the sergeant replied quizzically.

"To be decapitated and have their head tossed over the wall!" Sira's frail rein on her temper snapped once more. Fool of a man, she bore word of death and disaster while he simply eyed her mud-stained clothing with the forbearance one might give a delusional child.

Her gaze narrowed bitterly as she snapped, "But I did not escape that fate to stand and bandy words with simpletons at the gate! I have vital information for Lord Darien of Silverbrook and Lord Goldur, the King's advocate."

The sergeant regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "Come. Let me take you up to the fifth circle. We will see what the bailiff can do for us."

Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at the first guard, Sira settled for a quick scowl in his direction. Then she beamed at the young sergeant and allowed him to guide her to the shack just inside the Great Gate. There he silently smoothed some salve upon the burns, stoically ignoring her efforts at flirtation, and wrapped a loose bandage about her hands before leading her through the crowds that thronged the city.

xxx

A short while later, the same gate guard waved through a young woman who rode slouched on a donkey. She was unremarkable, aside from being rather slovenly and ugly and wearing a scarf over one eye. At least this one did not ask to be taken to the King or tell outlandish tales. As she passed silently into the city, the guard gave her a second cursory glance before dismissing her from his mind.

xxx

Abandoning the donkey at a water trough near the gate to the second circle, Minna stealthily acquired a market basket from a distracted goodwife. Thereupon she slipped quickly into a narrow alley cutting between the houses that here stood packed shoulder-to-ledge. Fine houses they were, with high stone walls and carved balustrades, in no way the sort of places such a one as she would be expected. Wrapping her scarf about her face, Minna knocked softly on the third door from the end.

A plump, pimple-faced youth wearing a grease-stained leather apron opened the door and stared at her suspiciously. "What you want?"

"Got somethin' to sell." Minna held up the basket, then a copper coin.

Giving a shrug, the youth dropped the coin into a pocket of his apron and waved her inside. Minna's stomach rumbled audibly at the smell of fried pork and onions, and the boy laughed, shoving her past the table laden with the remains of a lavish lunch.

"T'aint fer you." Then he leered at her. "Less o' course you got something to trade fer it." Giving her a quick swat on the backside, he led her down a narrow hall to a small, brightly-lit room at the front of the house.

"Don't touch anything," he ordered.

Minna sneered at the boy's back as he disappeared and dropped the market basket onto an ornately carved table. A parlor or library the room seemed, stuffed with heavy, ornate furniture and somber statuary amongst shelves of books, the cramped whole relieved only by two tall, thin windows. Pulling off her scarf, she raised a polished silver tray and, with her uninjured eye, inspected her face. What she saw was a blurred reflection of blistered, swollen features that instantly curdled into an expression of her fury. Slamming the tray to the table, she cursed vehemently.

"Temper, temper, my dear," said a silken voice, as the door behind her clicked quietly closed. "That's a valuable piece of Dwarven silver craft, very hard to come by."

Instantly Minna's ill-favored visage contorted to even greater ugliness. "I'll give ya temper. That bitch ruint my face!"

As he carefully repositioned the tray on its table, Margul smiled then laughed softly. "I'm certain you gave as good as you got."

Eyes gleaming silver in the sunlight coming through the narrow windows, his tone sharpened, "But what are you doing here? Surely, the job cannot be completed as yet."

"That's another thing the bitch ruint," Minna exclaimed sullenly.

"Explain."

She folded thick arms across her sagging breast. "Cullen didn't show. He sent some brassy-haired trollop in 'is place."

"And …?"

"She got away." Minna's cheeks colored with the ruddy flush of her humiliation. "But not before I marked 'er! I followed 'er, but she got to the Great Gate before me. I don't know where she disappeared to, but reckoned I'd better warn yer."

Long, pale fingers traced the edge of the silver tray ever so delicately as he stepped slowly forward. "And who saw you come in?"

"Just that pig yer got in the kitchen." Glancing toward Margul, she added, "The redhead claimed to know ya."

"Did she?" Reaching down, he picked up the discarded scarf and twisted it carefully in his hands.

"Aye." Her eyes narrowed as she jutted her blunt chin in challenge. "Gettin' a bit sloppy, aren't yer?"

"True, my dear." Margul's fingers tightened about the length of wool and his lips curled in a thin, cold smile. "'Tis a fault I will rectify immediately."

xxx

TBC ...


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

After lunch the hearing reconvened, the mutter and shuffle of a crowded room stilling as Council and King resumed their seats. When all were ready, the next witness was called. Tall and self-possessed, Captain Gethrod of the Deerham Guard came forward and gave his evidence. The account was objective and open. He made clear his reluctance to tolerate orcs, but also his greater reluctance to stand back and allow mob rule to mete out its own idea of justice.

"It was not orcs," he said, "who murdered Farmer Oswyn for his gold. Were it not for Lord Darien's investigations, if we had clung to the lie we were told, the true killer would have gone undiscovered. And an innocent woman and child would lie dead today, as well."

In the gallery the young widow Avis did not look up to meet the soldier's sympathetic gaze.

Lord Valthaur's subsequent questioning cleverly revealed the schisms that had resulted in Deerham, when Oswyn employed the orcs, Muggin and Masher, on his farm. The law lord made a point of how toleration of orcs by a few caused conflict with their neighbours, thus dividing villages.

"If two orcs can divide a village," he boomed, "what might we expect to see when that number is grotesquely multiplied, and that division is applied to our towns, cities and the Realm?"

While conceding this might pose a problem, Gethrod insisted that whether orcs were to be given protection or not, it should be the duty of Guards and Rangers to see that the law was carried out.

Valthaur merely scratched his chin and asked, "What are the residents of Deerham to do if they encounter a pack of vicious orcs while, you, Captain Gethrod and your men are unavoidably absent?"

The guard's response that everyone was entitled to self-defence earned a dry "Indeed they are. Thank you for your help" from the judge.

xxx

The testimony of the widow, Avis, followed, and it did not go well. Under Goldur's easy questioning, her explanation of how her husband, Tobias, had tried to blame orcs for a murder he had committed brought a swift, if softly-worded, denouncement from Valthaur when he rose.

"Mistress Avis, you must realise that you are a poor judge of character." He braced his hands on his table, his heavy frame leaning as if into an oncoming gale as he fixed her with hard eyes. "You married a bully who subsequently became a murderer, and you refused to see his faults until they were blatantly undeniable. We might have more faith in your uncle's words, were he still alive to speak them, though it seems you paid little heed to his opinion before his death."

Slowly Valthaur shook his head, much as a grandfather might chastise a particularly foolish child. "I therefore wonder how much we can rely on your evidence. I'm afraid I am a blunt speaker so you must forgive me, madam, but I hope that, since you have contributed what you hoped might appease your uncle or punish your husband, you will go home. Go home, and spend your time teaching your son of that most men are better behaved than his father, and that even he had less blood on his hands than any orc."

The young widow's face was white and she appeared briefly unsteady on her feet as she arose from the witness chair. As the bailiff gently took her arm, a wan, fleeting smile touched her lips and with lowered eyes she let him guide her back to her seat.

In her own place, Erin the hobbit awaited her summons while swallowing hard against a clutching sense of dread.

xxx

"The Council calls Erin Atwater, of Buckland and the Inn of The Burping Troll."

As the bailiff announced the next witness, Erin felt her stomach plummet straight to her furry feet. She was a very nervous hobbit lass as she slid from her seat and stood up. With furtive fingers she reached into her pocket, reassuring herself that the obsidian charm was still there. While she made her way into the open, someone's hand briefly touched her back: perhaps it was Anardil but she did not look to see.

Suddenly every eye in the room was fixed on her small, sturdy form and the cavernous silence whispered. The space between her and the witness chair suddenly seemed as formidable as the Old Forest and wide as Rohan. As her bare feet slowly, silently padded the stone floor she dared not lift her gaze to the dais at the head of the room, for there sat the very power of Gondor itself. The King - the King! - and all his mightiest lords stared down at her from their high seats and she was very glad it had been some time since she ate breakfast.

It was with embarrassing relief that she glanced aside to see Lord Goldur's kindly face rising to greet her. For an instant she studied the empty witness chair, for it was very fine and rather tall. Then she turned about, gathered her skirts and neatly hopped backwards up into the seat.

Smiling to the room at large she said, "I think the chair's legs are longer than mine."

A warm ripple of chuckles swept around her and then Goldur stumped towards her, smiling. She could relax then, as the benevolent old judge who did not eat eggs for breakfast chatted with her about this and that. He asked simple questions about leaving the Shire and her journey to make her home in the south, about the friends she had made here and some of the perils they had faced together in the wilds of Ithilien. Somehow his fatherly manner even made her brief recital of the ambush outside Henneth Annûn feel not so awful.

However, all that changed when Goldur retired and Lord Valthaur rose ponderously from his seat. Erin just had time to catch young Kerwin's eye and win his beautiful, shy smile of encouragement before Valthaur's majestic bulk filled her immediate horizon. To the justice's greeting Erin could only return a wary nod, and then Valthaur spoke.

"From what we have heard, you are an extremely brave lady. Everyone in this realm has reason to hold great respect for and gratitude towards hobbits." Valthaur lifted his gaze to sweep the room while adding, "You are yet one more example of the valour of your people. We have heard about the facts of the recent orc ambush at Henneth Annun; now please tell us a little of how you felt at that time." Cocking his head with a faint, kindly smile he asked, "What did you think of those orcs?"

Erin's glance flicked nervously over the many watching faces. "I don't know as I thought much of anything. I was scared."

"As I can well imagine. In your fear, what did you do? What were you afraid of?"

"Well, good heavens, what do you think I was afraid of?" Her tart response sparked low chuckles that silenced as she continued, "I threw chunks of broken milk jars at them."

"You hold that the orcs who live near The Burping Troll Inn are your friends and that they are quite different from the ones who attacked you. Could you explain the difference?"

"All the difference in the world!" The hobbit's brow furrowed in indignation. "Gubbitch comes in and eats pie with us. I would certainly never waste a pie on that lot we met on the road."

Giving an indulgent nod, Valthaur pressed on. "But what if it were a starving orc you met upon the road, one that you did not know? What would you do with a pie in those circumstances?"

"That would depend on what those circumstances are. If I were alone, I should be very concerned and would probably stay away. If I were with my Ranger friends, then I might consider leaving the pie for the orc to eat when we had gone. It would, after all, depend on what the orc did first. Just like I would watch the behaviour of a strange Man." The hobbit paused and tapped her lip thoughtfully before again fixing the lawyer with bright eyes. "You know, Lord Valthaur, until the other day I'd been more frightened by unruly men than I ever had been of orcs. I'd just not met many unpleasant orcs. But I've more than once been in danger from ugly Men."

"Ah, of course Mistress Erin. The Shire was ever more bothered by men than by orcs." Valthaur's gaze narrowed cannily. "We've heard from Master Dernan, however, how his neighbour Padric took pity on an injured orc, learnt to feed him with caution as one would a feral cat, yet he was rewarded by being killed by the same creature. Suppose your kindness to a starving orc leant it enough strength to go and murder someone else?"

Erin was quiet for a long moment, a very long moment, in which restless rustles and muffled coughs were heard about the room. Twisting her hands in her lap, she looked at her friends, at Sev and Anardil watching her in silent encouragement and Celebsul's grave, handsome face.

Then she slipped her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers about the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian stone. Thus steadied she drew a deep breath, as if siphoning strength from the very air and spoke slowly, but clearly.

"I won't measure the kindnesses I give against the chance that it may go astray. The man I serve breakfast to may murder another man before dinner. But kindness does not live in fear, nor does it give itself in measured doses."

Looking now straight into Lord Valthaur's shrewd eyes, her words gained vigour as she said, "Of course Master Dernan's friend was the victim of beastly treachery. But the fact that he was kind makes him the very finest sort of Man. After all, the only way we find kindness … is by first being kind ourselves."

She laced her fingers primly in her lap as mutters of appreciation passed around the room. Then stillness fell once more.

"That is indeed a noble thought, Mistress Erin," Lord Valthaur responded gravely. "And no less than I would expect of a gentle hobbit. But kindness … can be misconstrued and even misplaced. Your people are farmers and husbandmen of the land. Would you feed wild dogs at the edge of your fields, only to stand by as they savaged your flocks?"

"Gubbitch and his lads are not dogs!" Erin's piping voice suddenly rang in the high-ceilinged room. "For goodness sake, doesn't anyone hear what I am saying? They are thinking beings fully capable of learning right from wrong and friend from foe, just as you and I do!"

"But will they choose to do so, Mistress Erin?" Lord Valthaur's oratory took on sudden weight as he fixed her with a stern, fatherly gaze. "Can your good and gentle heart truly conceive of how terrible their brutality can be? Can you not see the fact that these orcs, these creatures spawned of Morgoth's primordial evil, cannot be trusted or measured as are you and I? They are born of an ancient society where every moral and law is turned inside out, where order is governed by fear and force, where suffering is mocked, where kindness is a vulnerability to be exploited!"

Valthaur's sonorous tones abruptly softened and his face shifted to a gently sympathetic mien. "My dear, who is to say that the orcs who nearly murdered you and your companions had not just come from a nice, charitable breakfast out behind some kind-hearted farmer's barn?"

The following silence seemed to tick as Erin struggled to order her thoughts. Finally she looked again at Valthaur and her gaze narrowed. "Who is to say that, after your breakfast yesterday, you did not order that same farmer and his family out of their house for failure to pay their taxes?"

Muffled chuckles and murmurs rippled amongst the gallery, but Erin heeded them not. She straightened in her chair, although she felt as though it swam dizzyingly on some invisible tide, and as her fist closed about the stone in her pocket, her rounded features flushed with passion.

"Lords and gentlemen, I am not here to ask laws for dogs or wolves or beasts of the field. I am here to ask that good is done for people who are trying as hard as they can to do good, themselves."

Tears suddenly sparkled in her eyes as she cried, "And don't you think I forget anything! I look at that good man, Anardil, and every day I remember that he lost his arm in battle at the Black Gates. Every day I look at my friend Sevi and I remember she lost her husband and son. Every day I fix breakfast for my Rangers before they go out a-ranging in the wilds of Ithilien, and I don't know if they will all come home safe. Because sometimes evil still comes there and they must fight. And I have seen with my own eyes that sometimes people are hurt and sometimes they die. My father and brother both died in the Battle of Bywater!"

She took a shuddering breath, her chin quivering briefly before she spoke again, this time in quieter tones. "But I also remember that Aragorn, the King Elessar, held out his hand to the Southrons and the Easterlings and even the Wild Men. And although those Men came from the battlefields with the blood of Gondor and Rohan still on their clothes, although they have hated Gondor for generations on end … he did not withhold his peace or his kindness."

Abruptly she pointed towards Gubbitch's gnarled form, hunched incongruously in a finely-carved chair, and her voice broke to a fierce near-whisper. "How dare you withhold that peace from these who seek it, now?"

Silence fell like a vast cloak, for a moment not a cough or whisper stirring. On the dais, Faramir leaned upon one elbow and brought his hand before his mouth. On his own high seat even the King's grave face seemed thawed of its formal mien. Under such visible feeling there was no more Valthaur could do, with this witness, that would not turn sharply against him.

Lifting his gaze he offered the hobbit a very small smile. "Ah, Mistress Erin. Such loyalty, such braveness from one both trusting and tender of heart. I am sorry that my infernal questions brought you to tears. Thank you for your testimony. You may return to the benches."

She felt as one blind as she slid down and regained her feet, barely aware of the bailiff who guided her back towards her place. Had she done good or harm? Had she made herself entirely the fool? Was she after all just a silly hobbit, with too much heart and too little sense? There was no measure by which she could judge. When she had clambered into her own seat she reached to one side, and startled Celebsul half out of his skin by grabbing his nearest hand in a vice-like grip.

He recovered, however, and bent to whisper a single word: "_Sîdh_."

Peace. She knew that word. Perhaps she had not done so ill, after all. But she still held onto her friend's hand even as she leant back, passing the obsidian charm to Sevilodorf whose name rang out as the next witness.

xxx

Eyes downcast, Sev made her way forward. Hoping her skirts concealed the quaking of her knees, she was grateful for the courtesy that allowed her to sit rather than stand as was common in the councils of Rohan. Swallowing with difficulty she adjusted her skirts and focused on Lord Goldur's face as he stepped toward her. Clutching the small piece of obsidian tightly, she reminded herself that she was no longer seventeen and that the circumstances of the past did not have to replay themselves in the present.

Though her first responses were barely audible, she began to relax under Goldur's gentle questioning concerning the bare facts of her life. Pausing slightly before she spoke, she managed to respond without stuttering. Whether imagination, wishful thinking or some real power hidden within the stone, Sev felt the obsidian grow warm in her palm and a small measure of confidence strengthened her voice. When Lord Goldur returned to his seat, she risked a quick glance at the right hand benches. Meeting her eyes, Anardil lifted his chin, and she returned a tremulous smile. Squaring her shoulders, she watched as Lord Valthaur levered himself out of his chair and approached.

"We have heard a little of your valiant efforts to save the wounded at Helm's Deep, and of the grievous losses you endured. Your hatred for orcs must have been intense at that time. Could you explain what changed your opinion, if indeed your opinion has changed?"

Sev found herself fascinated by the fact that Lord Valthaur had a small wart right below his left ear that quivered as he talked. With conscious effort, she forced herself to look at his eyes and reply in a deliberately even tone.

"I have hated orcs. I still do, just as there are men I hate. Those who kill without just cause deserve hatred. Whatever their race."

A murmur of agreement rippled like a soft breeze amongst the audience. Then silence fell as Valthaur nodded, indicating he was about to respond.

"A noble sentiment. But surely orcs cannot be compared to men?"

With a slight lift of her shoulders, Sev answered, "There were Men at Helm's Deep who fought under the banner of the White Hand. I would admit to hating them as much as I have ever hated any orc."

"And with cause," Valthaur conceded, "for certainly those who were in league with the Wizard of Isengard had no just reason for attacking."

Making a small gesture toward the representatives from Rohan, Sev added, "King Theoden found the mercy to pardon them, and King Eomer has sent emissaries to their chieftains."

"A good point." Lord Valthaur gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and his voice grew cold. "Yet you speak of men with leaders who sued for pardon. Without their overlord, orcs roam in packs like wolves. They recognise no authority and have never sued for pardon."

Sevilodorf gripped the obsidian tightly and sought to organise the words she wished to say. "Without their overlords, orcs are for the first time in their existence free to make the same choices as men. And like men, some do roam as wolves across the countryside. There are those however who have chosen the harder road and try to live with others."

Lifting her eyes to the dais, she met the steady gaze of Aragorn and found herself strangely reassured by the attentive calmness evident in that stern visage. Looking back towards her questioner, she said quietly, "The King of Gondor has made peace with the people of Harad and pardoned the Easterlings who fought for the Dark Lord. Why should not the same options be extended to the orcs?"

Valthaur shook his head as if in sorrow at having to find fault with her words. "Once again, you compare orcs to men. Have you always viewed _them_ as equals of men?" The judge stabbed a finger toward Ukrosh and Gubbitch.

Her eyes followed the gesture, and as the crowd's murmur whispered in her ears, the hulking form of the uruk and the twisted face of the orc were replaced with the memory of the long stone hallway of the Hornburg filled with the battered bodies of her people. For a moment the floor seemed to tremble beneath her feet as the ground had shaken with the tramping of the feet of ten thousand orcs. She closed her eyes tightly against the vision of the mounds covered with simbelmyne stretching shadowy fingers across the road. Desperately she clutched the shard of obsidian but whatever virtue it might have had seemed to have vanished; the stone lay cold within her fist.

She hung her head and whispered, "No."

The council chamber was silent save for the shuffling of feet as Sev seemed to shrink in upon herself. Finally, in a soft, cajoling voice, Lord Valthaur said, "Come, Mistress Sevilodorf, You must elaborate."

But she couldn't. The words would not come, only the face of her brother whom she had failed so long ago. Then, her fear and weakness had rendered her nearly mute, and though his crime was in defence of her honour, Nathirem was exiled, only to go missing in war, more lost than were he known dead. What equal doom was she about to call down now?

"You admit to a hatred of orcs and that you do not view them as equals to men, yet you have aligned yourself with those seeking rights for the creatures."

Trapped as she was within her memories, Lord Valthaur's words made no sense to her, and Sev remained dumb. A whacking clap of wood on stone broke the silence, jarred her back to the moment. At Goldur's table she saw Kerwin bending to pick up the box of writing implements he had somehow knocked to the floor. Yet as he straightened again, his soft brown eyes looked straight across the table, meeting hers with a diffident smile. While he recomposed himself she silently repeated the words, 'aligned yourself with…'

Aye, that she had. Taken up a banner that set her apart from all those she had once loved. By doing so, was she making the deaths of all who had fought against these creatures somehow less worthy? But how could she do otherwise? She owed not only her life to them, but her very sanity.

"Mistress Sevilodorf?"

The gentle repetition of her name produced no response and Erin's anxious whisper was shushed by Anardil's deeper murmur.

As Lord Valthaur turned away from her, looking towards the dais with an expression that spoke of patient sympathy, Sev lifted her head. Her eyes searched the crowd to find Esiwmas; somehow she must make him understand that she meant no dishonour to the dead of Helm's Deep. Locking on his sorrow-filled gaze, she pleaded with him silently to understand that she meant only to do what was right. What would help to heal.

"Once…" She stopped, took a deep breath and began again. "Once I thought of them only as beasts. Beasts that killed without thought or reason and left nothing but terror in their path. Creatures of tales to frighten children. But not something that I would have to face, as they were far away."

Her voice faltered, but then grew stronger and she felt the obsidian growing warm again. "Then the Wizard of Isengard bred his army. An army of slaves with no mission but to destroy my people."

"He kept them leashed, save for occasional raids. But his plans had been well laid, and Wormtongue had the ear of the King. Reports of the growing menace were ignored. Dismissed as forays from the Misty Mountains. Until almost too late."

The judge listened intently, as did every person in the hall. It was a story they all knew, but not one which could offer any excuse or hope for the petition.

Knuckles white from her grip on the stone in her palm, Sev lifted her chin and met Lord Valthaur's eyes directly. "Once they were the stuff of nightmare, then they were simply the enemy, deserving only hate and death. I stood behind the walls of Helm's Deep and cursed them. I watched as mounds were built over the bodies of my family and cursed them. No, I did not always think of them as equals to men."

Valthaur shook his head in apparent confusion. "So what changed your opinion?"

Her moment of confidence vanished as she began to realise she could not be allowed to evade the question that would expose her deepest moment of despair. Her voice dropped and she said, "Events such as those already related by Lord Goldur. Pointing to one particular moment is impossible. But I cannot deny it has changed."

With a lift of his eyebrow that let the Rohirrim woman know she was not about to get away with evasion, he changed his question. "Even were it accepted that a handful have learnt to behave in a manner that lulls people into trust, can you honestly swear you have no doubts that some of those, let's take Corbat there as an example, will never turn and bite the hand that feeds it?

Corbat cringed in his seat and for a moment Sev felt anger surge through her. Had the man listened to nothing? Corbat had saved them. Was he turning on Corbat because she had evaded his question? As the eyes of the audience focused on the orc, he all but whimpered and would have crawled under his seat without the firm hand of Jasimir on his arm.

Striving to keep her irritation in check, Sev said, "I have had doubts."

For an instant, she had the satisfaction of seeing Valthaur nonplussed. Obviously he had not expected her to answer directly. "You've had doubts? Do you still have them?"

"Of course," Sev's voice inferred that any sensible person would retain doubts. "I have seen orcs go into rages over something as petty as a game of marbles and become unable to see beyond the end of their blades."

Valthaur pounced. "And even after seeing such exhibitions, you have chosen to aid those who seek rights for such creatures. Why is that?"

Firmly, she said, "Because there are some who deserve them."

"A strange statement from one who has lost so much at the hands of orcs."

Sev covered her snort of derision with a cough. "There are many who consider it more than strange. I have been labelled unnatural and a witch for trading with them."

"A witch?" Lord Valthaur grinned and patted his massive girth. "If so, do you have a potion that would make a body slim?"

Looking down at her own ample proportions, Sev retorted, "If I had, would I not be using it upon myself?"

"My lady, you are sylph-like beside me. And I'm sorry if you have suffered insults for your valiant attempts at remaining fair-minded. However, most people do find the idea of trading with orcs somewhat like arming the enemy. While they are down and out, it may seem harmless, but had you done the same during the war, it would have been treason. Now, as I say, it seems harmless, but many of us fear the orcs will rise again. Your trading may yet prove a small contribution to aiding the orcs to regroup and once again threaten the kingdom."

The brief surge of anger she had felt before was nothing compared to the wave that rolled through her at this not so subtle accusation. Eyes narrowing, she jerked a chin toward the audience. "Then sir, I would suggest that you inform the merchants seated here today to cease their trafficking with the lands of Harad and Rhun. If the number of Gondorian businesses sending representatives north through Ithilien to the Eastern borders is any indication, then I would expect Rhun to be regrouped and on the march by autumn. If my small trading endeavours assist Gubbitch's lad to regroup, then I will have made a far greater profit than I expected. It is trade and turning minds and hands to tasks other than war that will keep the orcs from again becoming a threat."

A murmur of voices rose from the crowd as the merchants found themselves nodding in agreement. Nor was Sev finished.

"Like all living things, they strive to survive the best they can. If you do not allow them to earn their way, they will be forced to steal and kill. Under the Dark Lord, they had no choice. But now there are some that choose to try another way. Should they be denied the opportunity?"

The moment she asked the question, she cursed her runaway tongue.

The light of battle gleamed briefly in Lord Valthaur's eyes, before he covered it with a carefully concerned voice. "Some? Should we put the kingdom at risk for one? Two? Twenty? In the faint hope of redeeming 'some' do we risk all?"

"That is for the Council to decide." Sev attempted to retreat, but knew that she had antagonised the man by scoring points with the merchants in the audience when he smiled slightly.

"Let us return to my original question; what has caused you to change your opinion of orcs?"

Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sev replied stiffly, "Weariness."

"Weariness?"

"I was tired of fighting." Heartened to see a few heads nodding, Sev gave a wry smile and continued, "So I didn't attack an orc on sight; and wonders of wonders, he didn't attack me. Turned out he was just as weary as I was."

"Intriguing. Would you care to share this story with us all?"

Briefly, she wondered what he would do if she refused. Then she relaxed her fist and looking down at the polished surface reflecting her image. Darkness into light, despair into hope. Fitting enough she supposed for this tale.

With a sigh she lifted her head and began, "'Twas the second summer after the war. I was travelling through the holdings of the North Marches. A wheel splintered, and I was getting ready to just leave everything and ride to the nearest holding. I turned and there it…he was. About twenty feet away. He was just standing there. Watching me. I pulled a knife, but I didn't throw it. I was suddenly just too tired."

"Tired of fighting?"

Shaking her head, she replied, "Of living. I wanted him to kill me. What was there left to live for?" Sev stopped, lost in the memory of those months of black despair. Then, almost as if speaking to herself, she went on, "But he didn't. He just stood there. Finally, I hollered at him. I don't even remember what I yelled, but I do remember what he answered."

She looked at Gubbitch who nodded as if he knew what she was about to say. "He said, 'Kill me.' So there we stood. Both of us wanting to die."

"And what did you do?"

In the perfect silence, the sound of her own breath seemed enormous. "It struck me as funny, so I started laughing. Doubt if anyone had ever met him face to face and fell over laughing. But he just squatted down and waited until I got over it; then asked me again to kill him. But I couldn't."

Holding up a hand as if to stop his words, she said, "I know you'll say I should have, but I didn't. Instead, I gave him some food and went on my way. Never learned his name or why he wanted to die; just learned that I wasn't the only one tired of life. I don't know why, but somehow that seemed to make it better. That I wasn't the only one."

Somebody cleared his throat in the instant she paused for reflection. She did not look up to see who it may have been as she spoke her final words.

"I've killed orcs since, but not without them doing something to deserve it first. Gubbitch will tell you. Only a daft chuff would trust an orc. Most of them do right well at carrying out the purpose for which they were bred. But there are some who are just as weary of fighting as we are."

Slowly Valthaur nodded and slid both hands within the voluminous sleeves of his court robes. His attention now turned to the audience.

"Weariness of fighting, we can all understand that. And in this men and orcs also differ, for men weary far sooner than orcs, some of whom have fought throughout the long centuries of their lives. And maybe as they weary more slowly, they recover more readily. Weariness is a temporary condition, one that a safe haven and nourishment will rapidly heal."

Looking once more at the witness, the judge said with finality, "I thank you for your insights, Sevilodorf of Rohan. You may return to your seat."

She arose in silence, the obsidian clasped tightly in her right hand. As Valthaur's tread scuffed away she turned her own feet towards the benches and her waiting friends. By her third step her chin was set high and her eyes forward. Whether she had done ill or well, she could not say. However, at the very least she had not conceded the fight.

Proof of that was in Erin's shining grin as Sev found her place and in the approval warming Celebsul's bright eyes. For Anardil, however, there was only a clasp of hands so tight as to be nearly painful, and as he brought her fingers to his lips he was swallowing back tears.

xxx

TBC ...


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

There was a pause after Sevilodorf returned to her seat, a loose sort of quiet that freed people to briefly relax, shift in their seats and whisper to those around them. At either side of the hall the two judges conferred with their assistants and shuffled through their written notes. Valthaur looked up from beneath lowered brows, eyeing the witnesses for the case and the hulking uruk-hai, Ukrosh, in particular. At Goldur's table Kerwin earnestly whispered as his long, pale fingers sketched out lines of writing that he wished to bring to the judge's attention. Alongside the three piles of documents on the table from the outset, a fourth heap had begun to rise slowly during the day, a sifting of evidence in response to the course of events.

Erin fidgeted in her seat, wishing they might have stopped for tea despite knowing they were nearing the end. She leaned towards Celebsul.

"The folk from the mines at Tumladen are next, right? And then Gubbitch?"

"Yes," Celebsul replied, even as his eyes lifted towards the chamber doors.

A Tower guard had opened one door and peered past it towards the judges' tables. His gaze fixed on Goldur and he straightened to stride towards the older man's seat. Kerwin whispered warning and Goldur turned as the guard reached him and bent to whisper in his ear.

Celebsul's brow furrowed and Erin glanced from the elf back across the room. "What's - ."

"Let me GO!"

A female shriek marked the crash of the council door slamming open, and every head in the room turned to stare. There a copper-haired harridan was flinging off the panicked hands of two more guards, slipping from their grasp like wet soap. Her clawed fingers slashed at their faces before she spun around to plunge headlong into the center of the room, skidding to a halt beneath the astonished eyes of king and countrymen.

"Sira?" murmured Erin, Sev and Aerio at once.

Wood screeched on stone as Cameroth lunged half to his feet in dismay. Darien's grab from behind halted him, however, before the innkeeper could bolt to his kinswoman's side.

"Mistress - you can't -." The guard at Goldur's table nearly vaulted over the furniture in his haste to reach her, but her siren tones already filled the room.

"The Council must hear me! Please, my lords, they're right behind me - it's a plot - let me GO! STOP!"

"My lords - forgive me!" The guard's face was nearly crimson with chagrin as he braced himself against Sira's lunge for escape. A desperate scramble of feet announced his comrades' arrival to re-capture this wild intruder.

"You MUST hear me!" Sira shrieked, twisting desperately in her captors' hands. "They will murder - kill - please, the Council must let me speak! He is sending the orcs!"

Then she gasped so sharply she nearly choked, as movement stirred on the dais. The King himself stood in sudden absolute silence, his grey eyes keen and bright and fixed on Sira, alone. Her face blanched dead white, and as her knees buckled the guards let her sink gently to the floor.

The silence seemed to shimmer with the vanished echoes of her hysteria as Aragorn stepped quietly down from his high seat. His eyes never left hers as he drew closer, and Sira's lips trembled fearfully. He halted before her, standing a full head taller than she, and the nobility of his bearing was striking contrast to her unkempt, almost lunatic appearance.

Yet when he spoke, the King's voice was so low that those in the back of the room strained to hear. "What is your name, child?"

She mustered only a whisper in reply, "Sira … of Henneth Annun."

The corners of Aragorn's eyes crimped slightly and an unexpected, almost fatherly warmth shone in them. "The floor is no place for you. Please rise." His gaze lowered to her roughly-bandaged hands. "Have you seen the healers?"

The only way Sira was able to stand on her trembling legs was by the strength of the guards at either side. However, she found her voice again, albeit a very small voice.

"Not yet. The … the guards at the Great Gate were very kind, though."

"Then you shall be conducted to the Houses of Healing presently. You say you have information for this Council?"

"Yes, lord."

Those who knew Sira best found wry amusement, in seeing her so reduced to timid and humble compliance. But they also realized they would not care to be under that kingly scrutiny in her place.

Indeed, a light seemed to kindle deep in his eyes as he looked upon her. "You bear only truth in the words you shall say?"

"Yes," she whispered, trembling but seemingly unable to break free of his gaze.

His release of her came simply in the form of a faint smile. "Then these men shall see you tended to, and you will be brought before us, afterwards."

Sira blinked as if awakening from a trance, her lips moving but briefly unable to shape them to words. "But … but …"

Aragorn was already turning away, his foot upon the first step of the dais when Sira regained her breath and a flash of tearful courage.

"You don't understand!" she wailed. "They are following me - Margul sent them! Margul sent the orcs so the Council will vote his way!"

The king halted and was perfectly still. Then he turned and his face was grim as a drawn blade. He did not look to Sira, however, but to others in the room, the judges and the merchants in the gallery, while a brief ripple of voices pattered with the word, "Margul." Cullen sank deeper into his chair as Lord Valthaur's grim gaze swept over him, and the orcs Lorgarth and Corbat leaned to mutter together until Jasimir hissed them both into silence.

Aragorn spoke, voice ringing. "Is this name known here?"

"Yes, my lord," Goldur replied, struggling to push himself to his feet and bow as he spoke. "The Margul I know is a respected merchant in this city. A purveyor of exotic goods and imports."

"That's HIM!" Sira cried, and her pretty features twisted in such fury that the guards tightened their grasp on her arms. "He's fancy and rich and silver-tongued as they come, but he's a snake in the grass!"

The rumble of surprise and speculation began to rise as Aragorn frowned thoughtfully. But all fell still as he raised his head once more.

"Let her be seated, and someone please bring her a cup of water."

Then he gathered his mantle around him and swept back up to his seat in long, smooth strides.

xxx

It took a while for Lord Goldur to draw a coherent story from the woman who now sat in the witness chair. However, under his fatherly charm she calmed enough to string together the events of the past two days: the meeting with Minna and its terrible consequences.

Sira recalled almost the exact words of Margul's henchwoman: _'you know about this orcs rights stuff, well Margul isn't happy about it. He says that orcs throwing a head into the city might just stir up a few memories_.'

"That's terrible. But why did you agree to deliver goods to this Minna in the first place?" Goldur wondered.

Glancing to one side, Sira caught sight of the clearly petrified Cullen. Her eyes narrowed and she almost denounced him on the spot, but then an image of his decapitated body sprang unbidden into her mind. Would he have fared better or worse than she? It was Sira's keen sense of self-interest that won through. She didn't need any more enemies at this moment, nor did she want revenge on Cullen, only Margul.

"Unfinished business," she declared. "Margul wanted the delivery made and I wanted to see this 'other woman' of his."

"Other woman?" Lord Goldur's kindly features formed a slight frown. "You were stepping out with Margul?"

"Yes, I thought he was going to marry me, but then he suddenly left town."

"Left town? He is a merchant, Mistress Sira. Could he not have been leaving on business?"

The look Sira gave him would have scorched mûmakil hide. "Not the way he left. I should have known he was trouble, just by the way he was always playing Mister Important and Clever." Her pretty brow furrowed in remembered annoyance. "He even wanted me to spy on Sevilodorf, there."

Across the room Sev's and Anardil's eyebrows leaped in common surprise and, with a cringe, Jasimir remembered yet again that he had not passed this information on, but Goldur merely gave Sira a puzzled frown. "Spy on Sevilodorf? Whatever for?"

"How should I know?" Sira jerked one shoulder in an irritable shrug. "He didn't like all this orc business that she and Lord Darien have been stirring up, though."

Goldur scratched the back of his balding head briefly then proceeded to try to sum up the young woman's evidence thus far. "So Margul intended that you be murdered by orcs and your head be thrown into this city to sway the verdict of the hearing? You must be devastated that you were the chosen victim."

"Oh, anyone would have served his purpose." Sira glanced again at Cullen, her lower jaw set at an angle as she gritted her teeth.

Though his name remained unspoken, Cullen trembled where he sat, his features white with terror that grew colder and more paralyzing with each word uttered. It did not take much imagination to realise that what had happened to Sira had been intended for him, nor to understand how deeply incriminated he might be. Farmer Tiroc also listened pale-faced to think his son had been associated with the man who could hatch such a ghastly plot.

Heaving a weary sigh, Lord Goldur looked towards the dais. "I think it would be wise to hear Margul's side of this, if a guard could be dispatched to his house."

A nod was all it took to set the action in motion. Goldur wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to an official. Then the law lord looked to where his opponent sat, now flanked by just two assistants.

"Do you want to question the witness before we send her to the Houses of Healing?"

Valthaur huffed. "I think I better, considering the astonishing claim she is making."

He rose and faced Sira who, energy spent, was picking at her bandages, now slowly darkening with crimson stains. "Margul was your sweetheart?"

"I thought so," she mumbled, without lifting her head.

"He left Henneth Annun, abandoning you?"

Her rounded chin grew tight as her fingers plucked at each other, and her anger rekindled. "Yes, he did!"

"You were bitter about this?"

Sev and Anardil exchanged glances. Sira had no idea what she was up against.

The barmaid looked up at her questioner, her expression venomous as she spat, "Yes, I was! He used me!"

"You vowed revenge, no doubt?"

"And I will have it!"

Valthaur's brows climbed upon his pale forehead. "By coming to the Grand Council with a ridiculous tale about some young woman and a band of unseen orcs intending to cut off your head?"

Sira's eyes suddenly widened, like a rabbit that finds itself caught in a snare. "Wha-. What?" Her voice shot to an incredulous squeak like nails on glass. "You think I burnt my hands on purpose? You think I'm lying?"

"What is that old saying?" Valthaur rubbed his chin. "The vengeance of a woman spurned is more bitter than a serpent's tooth."

Bandaged fists clenching on the arms of the chair in indignation, Sira sputtered and gasped, seeking for words to defy this claim. "You - how dare - I didn't -."

From her seat in the gallery Sevilodorf saw blood smear on the chair beneath the barmaid's hand. Despite every nerve telling her to stay quiet, her healer instincts brought her to her feet and she spoke out.

"For pity's sake, my lords. Let her kinsman -." she placed a hand on Cameroth's shoulder, "take her to the Houses of Healing before her wounds become even worse. She has given her testimony. Let this Margul give his when he is found."

For a single moment, Sira's eyes met those of Sevilodorf in a silent and unreadable exchange. Valthaur grimaced and nodded his assent, then walked ponderously back to his table as Cameroth and one of the guards ushered the wounded woman from the hall.

xxx

After the spectacle of Sira's unexpected appearance, the testimony of the miner from Tumladen seemed dull and dry, though it reinforced the evidence that a few orcs were able to work alongside men. Valthaur's brief cross-examination did not challenge the facts and could not erode the miner's beliefs, which were as simple and solid as the stone that dominated his life. As with Tiroc, the man returned to the benches unscathed.

However, after him the call went out for Ukrosh of the Ash Mountains. In-drawn breaths hissed all around the room as the great creature rose from his seat. Dark of face and savage of aspect, the loose trousers and shirt that clad his heavy frame no more made him seem a Man than if a wild beast had worn the same clothing. Perfect silence greeted the leaden clump of his shoes to the witness chair.

While Lord Goldur good-naturedly questioned the massive uruk hai, Lord Valthaur's impatience to interview this witness was evident from his many small shifts of posture. As soon as the judge for the petition turned to invite his opponent to rise, Valthaur launched himself like a black-sailed, broad-hulled dromond.

"Your human 'colleague' from the mines of Tumladen appears to have every faith in you. But I wonder how much provocation or hardship it would take for you to revert. After your troubles to rescue one of the miners, if they had not offered you work, what would you have done?"

The orc's rugged brow furrowed as his gravely voice rumbled forth once more. "Me an' my fellows decided soon after the war that we wuz sick o' fighting. We wanted to live like other folk. We got skills. We got strength. We can do what most men can't, even in peace. We might be bred to fight, but that don't mean we can't use what we are for other things. If we can't work, 'ow would we live? We'd 'ave no choice but fight, but that ain't what we want."

"So you admit that if the miners had not offered you work, you would have fought them."

"No!" Ukrosh's dark face scowled menacingly. "That ain't wot I said. We'd 'ave looked somewhere else, or made our own mine."

The law lord's fleshy lips tightened, his eyes hard as drill tips. "We have heard from witnesses that even orcs, who were tended and fed by men, turned and viciously slaughtered their benefactors. The men whom you work with are so naive as to keep their earnings in the same secret place as you keep yours."

Valthaur looked across to the miner in the defence benches and raised his voice. "That is what you said, sir? I suggest you keep your valuables in Pelargir, if you wish to live to enjoy them. Sooner or later, this creature will reveal his true nature and run off with all your possessions, no doubt after eating the flesh off your bones."

"That ain't fair!" Ukrosh shouted, half-standing, his intimidating height rising above his inquisitor.

"SIT DOWN!"

Valthaur's command was like a bolt of lightning that dropped Ukrosh back in his seat. The law lord leant forward, staring into the uruk's black face.

"Life is not fair. Will you use your superior strength, as you have just demonstrated, to make fate more fitting to your own desires? If things go amiss from your wishes, will it be as you have just demonstrated, here, within the very bastion of justice? What would your anger be like away from a city full of soldiers?"

As Valthaur dismissed the witness, it seemed to many of the audience that thoughts of murder did indeed glimmer in the uruk's cat-like eyes.

xxx

TBC ...


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

_Tuilérë (1st April SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

When Gubbitch clambered into the witness chair, he made a less intimidating though no less ugly spectacle than Ukrosh had. Goldur led the orc through an account of how he escaped from the madness that had gripped many of his kind after the destruction of Sauron. Gubbitch told of his weariness of centuries of battle and his struggle to survive in a peaceable manner, the gathering of his 'lads', then of the growing friendship with the odd assortment of folk at The Burping Troll Inn. His account contained many light-hearted moments, and some of the audience gave way to laughter more than a few times.

The mood quickly became more sombre as Lord Valthaur took to the floor. His first question was abrupt and to the point. "Why are you seeking rights?"

Gubbitch replied with equal bluntness. "I ain't; not if they enslave us again or expect us to be like men."

With undisguised contempt, the law lord retorted, "You cannot live like men."

Gubbitch shrugged. "O' course not. Elves can't live like men. Dwarves can't live like men. Orcs can't live like men. Only men can live like men - stands to reason."

Holding up a gnarled hand, the orc stopped Valthaur's next words and interposed his own. "We ain't men, much as some of us might want t' be. We've our own nature; coarse and uncouth though folk think it. We ain't good to look at, an' lack proper manners no matter 'ow 'ard we try … an' I am trying. But we are rid of them evil powers that made puppets o' us. We're free t' determine our own fates, if we're allowed."

"You confess you cannot change your nature. Thus if you were starving, you would revert to the behaviour we have seen so many times from your kind. You would, without qualm, kill and devour one such as I. Is that not so?"

The yellow eyes of the orc twinkled such that any who knew him could read his imminent mischief. "Only if I'd an army t' feed."

A small flurry of stifled humour quickly stilled as Valthaur almost roared, "This is the Grand Council. You are privileged to be here. It is not a place to make fatuous jokes."

Gubbitch did not so much as blink. "Then ask me summat sensible. I've just told 'ow I nearly starved many a time since t' war, an' never yet killed or et anyone. What's point in askin' if I'd eat thee, as if I'd be daft enough to say so in owt but jest?"

Shaking his head, the law lord drew a deep, wheezing breath. "Then let us examine your acquaintanceship with the peoples of The Burping Troll Inn. Is it utilitarian having a nearby domicile?"

Gubbitch suppressed a smile and glanced briefly over to where Aerio sat in the proposing benches. Valthaur's obvious change of tactic, seeking to confuse the orc with complex words was doomed to failure. If Gubbitch could understand Aerio the elf, he could understand anyone.

Realising that he was in a game of strategy, the ancient orc relaxed and replied, "Aye, in some ways it is. We can buy from 'em, trade with 'em. Sometimes they give us left-overs … but they ain't only benefits, nor most important."

"Then what is?"

"Friendship."

"Friendship?" Valthaur's face arranged itself into an expression of extreme doubt. "And what is that in your estimation?"

"It's likin' someone, wantin' t' spend time with 'em, talk to 'em, have a laugh an' a joke."

The law lord held out both arms, encompassing the entire hall with his gesture. "Then you must regard us all as your dearest friends, having shared your humour so freely with us."

"There's a difference between sarcasm an' jokes."

"Is there indeed? Then I take it that I am not yet considered a friend and that I have been subject only to your sarcasm."

Gubbitch listened with delight. This Lord was beginning to enjoy himself. Perhaps the two had found something in common, the challenge of trying to beat a worthy opponent.

Now wearing a mien of mild disappointment, Valthaur asked, "I'm sure we would all like to hear what an orc thinks of as funny. Pretend, if you would, for a moment that we are all friends, and share a joke with us."

With a look that said '_you asked for it_' Gubbitch responded, "Well, if thy insists: There were an elf, a dwarf an' an orc discussin' whose race were most honest. T' elf said that as they were oldest and wisest o' people, they must also be most honest. Dwarf scoffed an' said that elves were known to 'ave stolen even from each other; no dwarf would ever do that, they earnt what they 'ad by their 'ard labour, so they were most honest. Then it came to orc's turn, and 'e said, 'Orcs are ugliest, nastiest, most untrustworthy folk in world. Now tha can't get more honest than that, can tha?'"

Snorts of laughter escaped from many mouths around the hall, and some of the faces on the dais lowered for a moment, but Valthaur leapt upon the opportunity so freely presented to him.

"Never have truer words been spoken. Orcs are the most untrustworthy race in all of Middle Earth."

"Aye, o' course they are. I wouldn't trust most of 'em any further than I could throw thee."

"So we are indeed wasting our time here?"

"Can I ask thee summat?"

Lord Valthaur smiled thinly. "Yes, by all means do."

"How do I know I can trust thee?"

The law lord seemed nonplussed for an instant. Upon the dais, Aragorn leant over and murmured something to Faramir. Then Valthaur announced his answer. "I am a citizen of the realm, a judge and a counsellor, a man who has fought the enemy and proven his right to be trusted."

"Aye, an' I'm a citizen of this realm, a leader, a friend of men, 'obbits an' elves, an orc who's proven 'is reet to be trusted."

"Not to me, you haven't." Valthaur instantly responded.

"Nor thee to me!"

Folding his arms across his chest, Lord Valthaur inspected the ceiling. Then into the expectant silence, he posed another question. "Not all orcs are the same, that much we have witnessed today. What determines the difference between one such as yourself and those who fell into madness at the war's end?"

"Now that's a reet good question!"

"Thank you." Valthaur briefly inclined his head. "Do you have an answer?"

"Aye. There's three main types o' us. There's them like me who were bred by Morgoth's evil from captive elves, and a few other clever uns carrying a mix o' elf an' man in their black blood. They came from Sauron's and Saruman's more successful meddlin'. Such ones were captains, and those who survive remain leaders. T' second type are them such as most o' my lads. They're a bit dozy. They need to be led, otherwise they can do stupid things. Give 'em a good chief or employer, an' they'll be good; give 'em a bad un an' they'll be bad. Wi' out any leader, they're lost. There's not much elf in any of them."

Gubbitch paused for a moment to allow that implication to sink in. "You wouldn't need no 'elp to recognise t' third type. There's no elf blood at all in any o' 'em. They're barmy. They're your wolves. And those that ain't dead yet soon will be. T' one that killed that man that fed 'im, he's one."

"Fascinating," Valthaur declared. "And which of these 'types' would Corbat be classified as?"

"The second type … and before tha says owt, it does take time for a lad t' learn some proper self-control. We know now there were no plot to wipe out all t' ambushing orcs at Henneth Annun, so that leaves us wi' t' option that Corbat were just carried away. That's wot were drilled into 'im fer years. Lorgarth'll bring 'im into line."

"Why do I not feel reassured? Let me see: there are brainless savages, then a few orcs that can appear to behave with some measure of civility until the slightest provocation sends them berserk, and a handful of 'leaders' who cannot control their packs."

As Gubbitch opened his mouth to reply, Lord Valthaur held up both palms. "No, enough of orc genealogy. I am more interested in the notion that you are considered as a friend by some of these other witnesses. I wonder how well they really know you."

Gubbitch's eyes never wavered, though inside his spirits plummeted. Here came the questions he had dreaded.

"How many people have you killed in your long life, be it elves, men or dwarves?"

"Not sure, but if tha counted the number of orcs killed by an elf t' same age as me, I'd guess t' score would be close."

"Did you ever show mercy for women or children?"

"As much as were given t' orc women an' children."

"How would we recognise your women and children?"

"With t' same difficulty as I could once tell thine."

The ever-deepening lines in the law lord's forehead now almost caused his eyebrows to meet. "Are you seriously claiming that dwarves, men and elves are no better than orcs?"

One orcish shoulder rose in a shrug. "No. They fought because we attacked."

At this point, it seemed to those who looked on, that both witness and interrogator forgot for a while that there was anyone else in the hall.

Valthaur leant forward and peered at Gubbitch in disbelief. "Yes, you did. Time and time again you and your kind waged war on those who would choose to live in peace … Why?"

The orc continued to meet the law lord's gaze. "Ask an arrow why it flew … it'd no choice, its direction's set by t' archer. We were nowt but arrows: some better made an' more deadly, but all wi' out choice."

"No." Valthaur shook his head. "No … I don't accept that someone with your intelligence could not choose otherwise, could not walk away and refuse to fight."

"And do what?" Gubbitch retorted. "Set up camp in Northern Ithilien, work for Farmer Tiroc, go minin' in Tumladen? We've little enough chance o' being allowed such choices now. But even if we could 'ave, we couldn't, not with t' Dark Lord. Dun't thy understand? 'e was inside us. That's why so many went mad. When 'e vanished, there were nowt left in 'em. T'were like 'avin' their brains ripped out."

The shudder that passed though Valthaur made his chins visibly ripple. "Orcs are possessed, possessed by the greatest evil of the age? Agh, that is even more despicable than we could have dreamed."

It was Gubbitch's turn to raise his eyes in exasperation. "Were! Were possessed by t' greatest evil of t' _last_ age. We're in a new age wi' no greater evil than we do t' each other."

"But orcs still attack, still do the wicked work of their master, still carry his blackness within them."

"No, they carry nowt but habit an' memory. Most won't ever change, they'll run amok like 'eadless chickens an' ravenin' beasts. I've 'ad t' kill some me sen t' stop worse from 'appenin'. Them uns are as dangerous t' us as they are t' thee. _They're our enemies too_!"

Those final words brought murmurs of surprise from the hall; they also seemingly brought Lord Valthaur back to awareness of his surroundings.

"Maybe we should recruit orcs as orc hunters then," he remarked, dryly.

"Wot's t' pay like?"

"Ask your friend, Lord Darien."

Cocking his head on one side, Gubbitch thought for a moment. "Tha knows tha might 'ave a good idea there. Make some reliable orcs into soldiers an' they'd 'elp root out t' bad uns."

"I don't believe we've established that there _are_ any reliable orcs. And the notion of the King's Guard riding out with orcs alongside defies imagination."

"Then tha's less imagination than me."

"Oh, I do not doubt that for a second." Valthaur turned and addressed his comments to the audience. "For I have never heard such a torrent of pure fantasy."

"If tha wants me to swear I'm tellin' truth, I'll do that."

The law lord swept back round to face his opponent, almost laughing. "To what? To whom would you swear?"

"To 'im that made me."

"Morgoth?"

Gubbitch sat up as straight as his crippled bones would let him. "To Eru! I swear to Eru that I tell naught but truth."

A thick silence engulfed the hall as Valthaur stared for a long, long moment at the orc.

Then the law lord's voice rose and sliced the air like a blade. "How dare you! Enough! Let this grotesque testimony end. Go back to the benches."

Gubbitch struggled to his feet, but he did not allow Lord Valthaur the last word. "There's a 'igher law than any made 'ere, an' I'll trust to that at least."

As the orc loped back to his friends, he lifted his head and gave them, and them alone, sight of a smile that any others would have cringed to see.

xxx

The last testimony was over. All that remained was for the two judges to sum up their cases. As tradition demanded, the proponent both opened and closed the hearing, thus the opposing judge would deliver his speech first.

Lord Valthaur's powerful summation recalled all the points he had made throughout the day: the innumerable instances of orc brutality; the frailty, gullibility or downright untrustworthiness of those witnesses called for the petition; the inevitable and terrible consequences that would result from orcs being allowed to seek legal redress. The audience listened in enthralled silence, yet when the law lord's last resonating words echoed away, the response was no more than hushed murmurs of approval.

As Valthaur resumed his seat and Goldur rose from his, muted debates took place between the rows of traders and soldiers, mayors and master-craftsmen. Faramir, observing from the dais with a carefully impassive face, noted that the mood had changed during the afternoon from almost outright hostility against the petition, to a desire to hear out both sides to the bitter end, and maybe then reach some kind of conclusion. As the bailiff announced Lord Goldur's speech, stillness swept the hall, turning all but one to statues.

"My esteemed friend has stated how orcs have killed men throughout all time." Goldur paused to raise his hand, spreading his palm in a gesture of openness. "Throughout all time, we have been at war. Orcs killed men, men killed orcs - men killed men - that is the nature of war." A single finger now pointed to the ceiling. "The war is over - finally over." Then Goldur lowered his hand, declaring, "There is no evil overlord any longer to set us at each others' throats."

His expression sagged with sorrow. "Orcs killed women and children; they still do. But as we have heard, we may, in all innocence, have killed orc women and children. I am told, and I believe it, that there are few such left. We will thrive, they will fade. Whatever our fears, we are really in no danger, we men, of being overrun. Orcs are waning more rapidly than our beautiful allies, the elves."

Wiping his palm down his cheek before cradling his chin, the law lord asked, "Would you know whether the orc that you stumble across in the road was a mere child never tried in war, or an old woman long tortured in the cellars of Sauron? The opposition said orcs were soulless and alien to our world, but they are our stolen brothers and sisters … and the ancient ones are the kin of elves. They did not ask, they did not choose, to be corrupted into tools of the enemy. Those orcs who can look deeply enough inside themselves will find their true lord is indeed, as Master Gubbitch claimed, no less than Eru. He to whom we all must answer in the end."

Goldur's fingers rested now on the slim pile of paper that had grown during the day. "At the start of this hearing, Lord Valthaur told you a story … a true story. Let me tell you another." He lifted the top-most documents. "Here are reports from Rangers throughout Ithilien who have searched for bands of renegade orcs. They found many, but what they also found, in cave after cave, are the emaciated corpses of starved orcs. People, and I do say people, who died rather than attack us, or dare our mercy. May I remind Lord Valthaur of his own words to Master Gubbitch? '_Someone with your intelligence._' Aye, these," he gently returned the documents to their place, "were all someone of intelligence."

With the slightest shaking of his head, Goldur continued. "We sat back in our smugness and our victory over evil and never gave a thought to the fate of its worst victims. Forgive the misguided men who repented … and Master Horus, your nobility shows why this was truly just … but the orcs, the crippled souls who have never known anything but cruelty and slavery, we consign to the void, to endless slaughter. We deem ourselves faultless, brave and just. We identify our true enemy by his disfigured form; he nor she can ever disguise themselves." Goldur's words teetered between sorrow and contempt. "It is just … too … easy."

Pinching his nose and looking aside for a moment, the law lord's eyes then swept slowly across the hall. "I simply cannot believe that we could sit here and ignore the testimony of Eldar, Ranger, Rohirrim, Haradrim and Hobbit. What do any of us know of orcs aside from what we suffered in conflict? Only what we are told by those we should trust. Look at the ladies Erin and Sevilodorf: both have suffered grief beyond measure, both have almost met their own deaths at the hand of orc-kind, yet they can see that orcs differ from each other to the same degree as men."

Lord Goldur paced from one side of the dais to the other. "We look for simple answers - there are none. Yet if an Eldar can exchange wisdom with an orc, if Rangers can stay their swords, if men can work on farms or in mines alongside their ancient enemy, if good women can see that men may act more base than orcs, do we have any right to simply say kill them, they are beasts? You have seen they are not!"

Walking slowly back in the other direction, Goldur shook his head yet again. "To distil the whole sea of argument down, the simple fact before us is this: If any one of you stabbed me in the street, you would be immediately arrested for committing a crime. If instead you chose to kill Master Gubbitch," Goldur gestured wearily towards the orc, "you would have no crime to answer for. He is wiser, older and, to be honest, more fun than many an elf. So I ask you, is it fair that any hothead or fool could snuff him out without even being asked to explain why? Is that right? Is that just? This is not about treating lawless and unreformed orcs in the same way as men. It is about allowing _people, all people_ who wish to live in peace, to do so."

The law lord stood beside his table and raised his chin a fraction. "Valour has been mentioned more than once. We each have that in plenty, honed by endless war. Do we set aside our steel to rust? Do we allow ourselves to become craven? Recall Anardil's words … do not shun your place in peace. Recall the oath that Mistress Sevilodorf asked of Lord Darien … do not waste any more lives. Recall the wisdom of Celebsul … remain upon the road of bravery, risk kindness. And finally … recall the words of dear Mistress Erin."

Looking over to the hobbit, Goldur smiled ever so slightly. Then he turned back to his audience and, for the first time that day, he raised his voice so that it rang like a mighty bell.

"Dare to grant peace to those who seek it!"

Bowing to the dais, Lord Goldur resumed his seat in the totally silent hall.

The silence continued for seconds before King Elessar rose from his chair. "Thank you, my lords." He nodded to Valthaur and Goldur. "And thank you to all who so bravely gave their testimonies." Aragorn's riveting glance touched each and every person who sat in the benches, both to the right and to the left.

Then the King addressed the audience. "As you must know, the Council have struggled with this issue for a long time; that is why this hearing was called. We have listened to the debate; its breadth of evidence and clarity of reasoning will allow us to reach a decision. I ask you all to return at noon tomorrow to hear our ruling, and to take it back with you to all corners of the realm."

Inclining his head in a gesture of respect to the audience, the King made his way from the dais, followed in solemn procession by the rest of the Grand Council.

Moments later, an official rapped a gavel and all those gathered in the hall rose and filed out, still in almost complete silence.

Erin let out the deepest of sighs and whispered, "It's over."

"Aye, our part is at least," Celebsul, beside her, agreed softly. Then he turned as Anardil's hand on his shoulder sought his attention.

Elf and ex-ranger quietly exchanged a few words before rising from their seats.

"We're going to see how Sira is," Celebsul explained to Erin. "And maybe find out a little bit more about the mysterious Margul. We should be back before supper time, but if we are delayed, please save us a morsel or two."

The hobbit scowled prettily at the elf's wry grin, and she recited, "Those who are late for their dinner, must only expect to grow thinner."

Celebsul winked and strode off on long legs, Anardil easily keeping pace alongside. Watching them disappear into the remnants of the exiting crowd, Erin heard Sev's weary voice as the Rohirrim stood stiffly and made her way from the wooden bench.

"I'll be glad to get out of here and back to the inn where I can at least sit down in some comfort."

"Oh yes," the hobbit agreed. "I've discovered I have bones in places I never dreamt of."

xxx

TBC ...


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

_2nd April (SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

The bright sun of midmorning spilled through the windows as three of The Burping Troll's company sat down for a late breakfast. That is, it was late for the man and woman, but it was second breakfast for the hobbit.

"A much more civilized hour," mumbled Erin around the bit of sausage she had placed in her mouth. "Don't you agree?"

Sev laughed and slid the jam pot closer to the hobbit's plate. "I've already received my lecture for the day on the evils of early rising, Erin. So I will abstain from further discussion on the matter."

The hobbit flashed a happy grin as the grey-eyed man seated across the long table from her accepted a steaming mug of tea. With a smile he teased, "It is not the early rising that is the evil, it's all the noise you make doing it."

Slapping at Anardil's arm, Sev protested that she had made no more noise than was strictly necessary, but that such a glorious morning should not have been wasted laying about. "You should have come to the market with me; it was most entertaining to watch the good people of Gondor react to an Elf and an Orc strolling along discussing the architectural styles of the building facades."

"And from that," responded the ex-Ranger, "I deduce that you had Aerio and Gubbitch as your escorts."

"Actually it was Lorgarth. There is far more to that orc than meets the eye."

Recalling a starlit conversation behind The Black Cauldron, Anardil nodded agreement as he bit into a piece of toasted bread. Then he raised his hand in acknowledgement as Darien and Horus entered the room. Both men returned his greeting, though their faces were drawn and grim.

"Oh, there you are," exclaimed Erin, and quickly patted the table beside her. "Come, sit! I feared you would miss breakfast altogether, and that would be simply unthinkable. You Big Folk don't eat nearly enough."

The hobbit's chatter coaxed a wan smile to Darien's face and a gleam to Horus' dark eyes. However, Darien's quiet "good morning, all" was the only vocal response.

The pair seated themselves at the table where places were already prepared with cups, cutlery and small containers of condiments. Within moments, a young waitress set two pots before them, informing Horus that the cook had recalled his preference for green tea. This drew a warm smile from the Haradrim.

"There you are, Horus," said Anardil with a chuckle. "When the cook remembers you, you know you have made the right impression."

"Indeed," Horus replied, eyes twinkling. "As I learned during my time at The Burping Troll, to be in the cook's favor is entirely to a man's own benefit."

The wink he gave Erin was so unexpected that she giggled, and Sev and Anardil laughed. Once their tea was poured and breakfast ordered, Darien also seemed to relax a little, and he enquired as to the well being of the others. The talk around the table quickly turned to cheerful matters such as the quality of the bacon and the delights of Halfling-style bread, still warm from the oven.

No one dared a remark about what the Hearing decision might be, yet it loomed nearby like a dark ghost. Their chatter kept it at bay long enough for the meal to be consumed with enjoyment. Gradually though, the conversation died down as inner thoughts became preoccupied by the impending verdict. Their efforts might herald an unprecedented ascension from the rule of ancient Shadow. Or, all might crash to ruin and leave their very names tainted with the stain of folly.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," Sev broke the fragile silence. "I must go and change into more appropriate clothing." She stood, and then paused. "Oh, yes, before I forget. I must return this to you."

Pulling a hand from her pocket, Sev held the obsidian charm out toward Darien. "It proved a source of strength that I greatly needed. Thank you for its use."

Then with a wry glance at Anardil, she continued, "I have acquired the habit of refusing to listen to good advice merely because I did not want to admit to needing help from anyone. So I thank you both," she briefly touched Anardil's shoulder, "for conspiring against me for my own good."

For a moment, Sev appeared as if she wished to say more, but she merely turned and left.

Erin hopped down from her chair, threw a look of surprise at the men, shrugged her shoulders at their dumbstruck expressions, and then followed Sevilodorf from the room.

As the door closed, Anardil turned towards Darien, both eyebrows climbing. "Did she really say that, or am I dreaming?"

"Without a doubt," Darien responded, laugh lines crimping the corners of his eyes, "dreaming. We all must be."

Horus smiled and shook his head. "No. 'Tis an omen … luck smiles on us this day."

xxx

All reassembled in the Great Hall well before noon: the members of the audience in their original places, the ex-witnesses on the benches once more, as these were the only vacant seats. Conversations were no more than whispered courtesies, the speculations of the previous night and the morning abandoned outside the doors.

This day, no judges were announced, only the Grand Council. And as they entered, all eyes examined the expressionless faces of the royals, seeking a clue to the outcome of their deliberations. Following the seven, Lord Valthaur and Lord Goldur walked side-by-side, and only then did those unfamiliar with such proceedings notice the two additional chairs on the dais.

While the rest of the council and the judges settled into their seats, King Elessar remained standing, straight backed, his hawkish gaze sweeping the audience, and in his right hand, a scroll: the document bearing the doom of the orcs.

Into the sudden and overwhelming silence, his clear voice announced, "People of the Realm, friends from Rohan and Dale, from Dol Amroth and Mirkwood. Today Gondor will change its law. We do so only after great deliberation over months, and careful consideration of every word that was spoken here yesterday. This …" Aragorn held the scroll aloft, "has been unanimously agreed between the Council, and with the full co-operation and consent of both Lord Goldur and Lord Valthaur."

A few muttered comments flew between neighbours at the latter information. No one was yet sure which side had triumphed. But the situation became clearer as the King spoke on.

"There is no ideal outcome, no winning or losing sides in this matter. Justice is unlike war; it is a matter of constant balance, of judgement. The way forward today is governed by one simple and undeniable fact … orcs are people."

As Aragorn paused for a moment, allowing the statement to sink in, Gubbitch exchanged quick looks of astonishment with Lorgarth and Ukrosh who both glanced back from the front benches; the King himself had called them 'people'. They quickly refocused their attention on the speech.

"Orcs are of the same lineage as we: of man, of elf, or both. From the same root they were cut by Morgoth's ancient evil. Yet they are beings capable of thinking and communicating as ably as all other races that we hold to be people. If a man commits murder, justice will surely fall upon him. Thus, orcs who do likewise will endure that same justice."

In the body of the hall, a few eyebrows rose. Murderous orcs would be punished; there was nothing contentious about that.

The King watched these reactions and continued. "Justice has but one purpose … to protect people … all people who would live in peace. We have thus slightly amended the law, and added some guidance to help in its interpretation. My Lord Steward, Prince Faramir, will read the detail to you, and all present will be given copies to take away at the end."

As Faramir rose to his feet, Aragorn handed him the scroll, nodded once then sat down.

The prince unrolled the document and, in a voice devoid of emotion yet filled with rich intonations, he read the formal words aloud.

"The term 'peoples' embraces elf, man and halfling, dwarf, and orc. All citizens of this realm have redress to the law. The term 'citizens' includes all peoples who reside upon the King's soil. Peoples, be they citizens, visitors to this realm or travelling through, have redress to our law. There are some beings above and beyond the laws of men, yet to these we will give our oath of protection and cooperation, to the ents and the great eagles most notably. Yet we proclaim that no one may slay, without good reason, any sentient being. 'Good reason' is deemed no less than a serious and imminent threat to life or property."

Faramir looked up to indicate that he was now explaining, rather than reading. "That is the amended law … but we recognise the perils of this small change. Therefore we have added guidance."

Again reading from the scroll, the Prince continued. "Those orcs who wish to dwell peacefully within their own communities must have a chieftain to whom they answer. Such chieftains will be recognised by the Crown and will be responsible for the behaviour of those they accept into their clans. As a first instance, Master Gubbitch is recognised as the chieftain of the area that he, by traditional occupancy, holds in Northern Ithilien, and to him all peaceable orcs in the region should cleave."

Expecting to hear at least a murmur of dissent, Faramir paused. The hall remained strangely silent. "Those orcs who work for or with men, or who wish to set up their own legitimate businesses, must ensure that the local guards or rangers are fully informed of their presence and intention."

Lowering the scroll for a moment, the Prince explained in his own words, "This is an unavoidable necessity. Until these matters become commonplace, it is best for all involved to be certain of their ground."

Now steel entered Faramir's voice. "But as most orcs are indeed deadly …!"

He raised the parchment and read, "It is the responsibility of all citizens to immediately report the presence of any unknown orcs to the nearest authority. The authority will evaluate the situation and take appropriate action. Only in defence of life and in the event of imminent peril will citizens take overt action. Rangers and Guards will uphold the true spirit of this guidance. Any orc wishing to make his or her presence known, or to appeal for justice against persecution or false accusation may, as any other person is entitled, peaceably approach the authorities in the full knowledge that their claims will be given a fair hearing."

Lowering the page, Faramir cast his gaze upon the assemblage and drew a deep breath. In quieter tones he said, "This ruling shall be read aloud at crossroads and town squares, with copies thereof posted in public view. Arrangements will also be made to carry this message to such orcs as have shown themselves peaceable."

Looking towards the benches where the orcs attending the assembly sat, he added, "Master Gubbitch, we will require your assistance in facilitating these matters. I will be contacting you in due course."

The old orc nodded acknowledgement.

With a fluid step to one side, Prince Faramir bowed and the King rose to his feet again. Aragorn's piercing gaze seemed to take in every nuance of expression from around the hall. Then he spoke.

"It is done. The Grand Council offers its gratitude to all of the peoples who attended these two days. Peace was dearly bought, and is yet a young and fragile creature to be nurtured; that is a duty in which we must all serve. May each of you treasure peace and prosper by it."

The rest of the Council then stood and followed as their king led the way from the dais. A hushed rustle of clothing marked the rising of all in the room.

Darien watched the small procession make its stately departure. He saw Lord Goldur briefly glimpse around. Their eyes met for one moment in a wordless exchange of respect and relief. Then blinding sunlight poured through the opening doors silhouetting the Grand Council until they dwindled from view.

"It is done." The hushed voice of Horus echoed the King's word. Darien turned to his comrade, smiled thinly and nodded before lowering his head into his hands.

As the benches slowly, quietly emptied, Horus spoke again, "Come, my lord. There is cause to celebrate and we should not be late, else the elves will drink all the wine and the hobbit will eat all the food. You have earnt a full tankard and plate."

A shudder shook Darien's shoulders, then he looked up, grinning. "You are quite right, my friend. We all deserve a night of merriment."

While the audience from the Great Hall trickled out into the streets of the fifth circle, many were waylaid by the folk of the city eager to hear the outcome. Soon all the tiers of Minas Tirith were thronged with gossiping goodwives and husbands, wide-eyed youngsters and sage elders. Soldiers ventured a few steps from their posts to listen to the chatter and even some of the sick and wounded in the Halls of Healing leant over the walls to call for news.

Though many expressed amazement on hearing the final ruling, all loved their King and respected his Council, so they sought instead to learn as much as they could of the evidence that had brought about this outcome. Only men of Gondor who looked as though they had been present in the Hall felt a hand on their arm or a murmured request in their ears.

No one disturbed Horus as he spoke to Ukrosh in the street, nor the golden-haired hobbit laughing at some remark from a wizened orc. As to the two tall elves talking quietly to an esteemed lord justice, no, these they would not dare disturb.

And when that strange, small gathering of races began to venture back to their hostelry, the crowds parted to let them pass, falling silent for a few moments to stare before returning to their speculations with renewed vigour.

xxx

TBC ...


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

_2nd April (SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

The bright sun of midmorning spilled through the windows as three of The Burping Troll's company sat down for a late breakfast. That is, it was late for the man and woman, but it was second breakfast for the hobbit.

"A much more civilized hour," mumbled Erin around the bit of sausage she had placed in her mouth. "Don't you agree?"

Sev laughed and slid the jam pot closer to the hobbit's plate. "I've already received my lecture for the day on the evils of early rising, Erin. So I will abstain from further discussion on the matter."

The hobbit flashed a happy grin as the grey-eyed man seated across the long table from her accepted a steaming mug of tea. With a smile he teased, "It is not the early rising that is the evil, it's all the noise you make doing it."

Slapping at Anardil's arm, Sev protested that she had made no more noise than was strictly necessary, but that such a glorious morning should not have been wasted laying about. "You should have come to the market with me; it was most entertaining to watch the good people of Gondor react to an Elf and an Orc strolling along discussing the architectural styles of the building facades."

"And from that," responded the ex-Ranger, "I deduce that you had Aerio and Gubbitch as your escorts."

"Actually it was Lorgarth. There is far more to that orc than meets the eye."

Recalling a starlit conversation behind The Black Cauldron, Anardil nodded agreement as he bit into a piece of toasted bread. Then he raised his hand in acknowledgement as Darien and Horus entered the room. Both men returned his greeting, though their faces were drawn and grim.

"Oh, there you are," exclaimed Erin, and quickly patted the table beside her. "Come, sit! I feared you would miss breakfast altogether, and that would be simply unthinkable. You Big Folk don't eat nearly enough."

The hobbit's chatter coaxed a wan smile to Darien's face and a gleam to Horus' dark eyes. However, Darien's quiet "good morning, all" was the only vocal response.

The pair seated themselves at the table where places were already prepared with cups, cutlery and small containers of condiments. Within moments, a young waitress set two pots before them, informing Horus that the cook had recalled his preference for green tea. This drew a warm smile from the Haradrim.

"There you are, Horus," said Anardil with a chuckle. "When the cook remembers you, you know you have made the right impression."

"Indeed," Horus replied, eyes twinkling. "As I learned during my time at The Burping Troll, to be in the cook's favor is entirely to a man's own benefit."

The wink he gave Erin was so unexpected that she giggled, and Sev and Anardil laughed. Once their tea was poured and breakfast ordered, Darien also seemed to relax a little, and he enquired as to the well being of the others. The talk around the table quickly turned to cheerful matters such as the quality of the bacon and the delights of Halfling-style bread, still warm from the oven.

No one dared a remark about what the Hearing decision might be, yet it loomed nearby like a dark ghost. Their chatter kept it at bay long enough for the meal to be consumed with enjoyment. Gradually though, the conversation died down as inner thoughts became preoccupied by the impending verdict. Their efforts might herald an unprecedented ascension from the rule of ancient Shadow. Or, all might crash to ruin and leave their very names tainted with the stain of folly.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," Sev broke the fragile silence. "I must go and change into more appropriate clothing." She stood, and then paused. "Oh, yes, before I forget. I must return this to you."

Pulling a hand from her pocket, Sev held the obsidian charm out toward Darien. "It proved a source of strength that I greatly needed. Thank you for its use."

Then with a wry glance at Anardil, she continued, "I have acquired the habit of refusing to listen to good advice merely because I did not want to admit to needing help from anyone. So I thank you both," she briefly touched Anardil's shoulder, "for conspiring against me for my own good."

For a moment, Sev appeared as if she wished to say more, but she merely turned and left.

Erin hopped down from her chair, threw a look of surprise at the men, shrugged her shoulders at their dumbstruck expressions, and then followed Sevilodorf from the room.

As the door closed, Anardil turned towards Darien, both eyebrows climbing. "Did she really say that, or am I dreaming?"

"Without a doubt," Darien responded, laugh lines crimping the corners of his eyes, "dreaming. We all must be."

Horus smiled and shook his head. "No. 'Tis an omen … luck smiles on us this day."

xxx

All reassembled in the Great Hall well before noon: the members of the audience in their original places, the ex-witnesses on the benches once more, as these were the only vacant seats. Conversations were no more than whispered courtesies, the speculations of the previous night and the morning abandoned outside the doors.

This day, no judges were announced, only the Grand Council. And as they entered, all eyes examined the expressionless faces of the royals, seeking a clue to the outcome of their deliberations. Following the seven, Lord Valthaur and Lord Goldur walked side-by-side, and only then did those unfamiliar with such proceedings notice the two additional chairs on the dais.

While the rest of the council and the judges settled into their seats, King Elessar remained standing, straight backed, his hawkish gaze sweeping the audience, and in his right hand, a scroll: the document bearing the doom of the orcs.

Into the sudden and overwhelming silence, his clear voice announced, "People of the Realm, friends from Rohan and Dale, from Dol Amroth and Mirkwood. Today Gondor will change its law. We do so only after great deliberation over months, and careful consideration of every word that was spoken here yesterday. This …" Aragorn held the scroll aloft, "has been unanimously agreed between the Council, and with the full co-operation and consent of both Lord Goldur and Lord Valthaur."

A few muttered comments flew between neighbours at the latter information. No one was yet sure which side had triumphed. But the situation became clearer as the King spoke on.

"There is no ideal outcome, no winning or losing sides in this matter. Justice is unlike war; it is a matter of constant balance, of judgement. The way forward today is governed by one simple and undeniable fact … orcs are people."

As Aragorn paused for a moment, allowing the statement to sink in, Gubbitch exchanged quick looks of astonishment with Lorgarth and Ukrosh who both glanced back from the front benches; the King himself had called them 'people'. They quickly refocused their attention on the speech.

"Orcs are of the same lineage as we: of man, of elf, or both. From the same root they were cut by Morgoth's ancient evil. Yet they are beings capable of thinking and communicating as ably as all other races that we hold to be people. If a man commits murder, justice will surely fall upon him. Thus, orcs who do likewise will endure that same justice."

In the body of the hall, a few eyebrows rose. Murderous orcs would be punished; there was nothing contentious about that.

The King watched these reactions and continued. "Justice has but one purpose … to protect people … all people who would live in peace. We have thus slightly amended the law, and added some guidance to help in its interpretation. My Lord Steward, Prince Faramir, will read the detail to you, and all present will be given copies to take away at the end."

As Faramir rose to his feet, Aragorn handed him the scroll, nodded once then sat down.

The prince unrolled the document and, in a voice devoid of emotion yet filled with rich intonations, he read the formal words aloud.

"The term 'peoples' embraces elf, man and halfling, dwarf, and orc. All citizens of this realm have redress to the law. The term 'citizens' includes all peoples who reside upon the King's soil. Peoples, be they citizens, visitors to this realm or travelling through, have redress to our law. There are some beings above and beyond the laws of men, yet to these we will give our oath of protection and cooperation, to the ents and the great eagles most notably. Yet we proclaim that no one may slay, without good reason, any sentient being. 'Good reason' is deemed no less than a serious and imminent threat to life or property."

Faramir looked up to indicate that he was now explaining, rather than reading. "That is the amended law … but we recognise the perils of this small change. Therefore we have added guidance."

Again reading from the scroll, the Prince continued. "Those orcs who wish to dwell peacefully within their own communities must have a chieftain to whom they answer. Such chieftains will be recognised by the Crown and will be responsible for the behaviour of those they accept into their clans. As a first instance, Master Gubbitch is recognised as the chieftain of the area that he, by traditional occupancy, holds in Northern Ithilien, and to him all peaceable orcs in the region should cleave."

Expecting to hear at least a murmur of dissent, Faramir paused. The hall remained strangely silent. "Those orcs who work for or with men, or who wish to set up their own legitimate businesses, must ensure that the local guards or rangers are fully informed of their presence and intention."

Lowering the scroll for a moment, the Prince explained in his own words, "This is an unavoidable necessity. Until these matters become commonplace, it is best for all involved to be certain of their ground."

Now steel entered Faramir's voice. "But as most orcs are indeed deadly …!"

He raised the parchment and read, "It is the responsibility of all citizens to immediately report the presence of any unknown orcs to the nearest authority. The authority will evaluate the situation and take appropriate action. Only in defence of life and in the event of imminent peril will citizens take overt action. Rangers and Guards will uphold the true spirit of this guidance. Any orc wishing to make his or her presence known, or to appeal for justice against persecution or false accusation may, as any other person is entitled, peaceably approach the authorities in the full knowledge that their claims will be given a fair hearing."

Lowering the page, Faramir cast his gaze upon the assemblage and drew a deep breath. In quieter tones he said, "This ruling shall be read aloud at crossroads and town squares, with copies thereof posted in public view. Arrangements will also be made to carry this message to such orcs as have shown themselves peaceable."

Looking towards the benches where the orcs attending the assembly sat, he added, "Master Gubbitch, we will require your assistance in facilitating these matters. I will be contacting you in due course."

The old orc nodded acknowledgement.

With a fluid step to one side, Prince Faramir bowed and the King rose to his feet again. Aragorn's piercing gaze seemed to take in every nuance of expression from around the hall. Then he spoke.

"It is done. The Grand Council offers its gratitude to all of the peoples who attended these two days. Peace was dearly bought, and is yet a young and fragile creature to be nurtured; that is a duty in which we must all serve. May each of you treasure peace and prosper by it."

The rest of the Council then stood and followed as their king led the way from the dais. A hushed rustle of clothing marked the rising of all in the room.

Darien watched the small procession make its stately departure. He saw Lord Goldur briefly glimpse around. Their eyes met for one moment in a wordless exchange of respect and relief. Then blinding sunlight poured through the opening doors silhouetting the Grand Council until they dwindled from view.

"It is done." The hushed voice of Horus echoed the King's word. Darien turned to his comrade, smiled thinly and nodded before lowering his head into his hands.

As the benches slowly, quietly emptied, Horus spoke again, "Come, my lord. There is cause to celebrate and we should not be late, else the elves will drink all the wine and the hobbit will eat all the food. You have earnt a full tankard and plate."

A shudder shook Darien's shoulders, then he looked up, grinning. "You are quite right, my friend. We all deserve a night of merriment."

While the audience from the Great Hall trickled out into the streets of the fifth circle, many were waylaid by the folk of the city eager to hear the outcome. Soon all the tiers of Minas Tirith were thronged with gossiping goodwives and husbands, wide-eyed youngsters and sage elders. Soldiers ventured a few steps from their posts to listen to the chatter and even some of the sick and wounded in the Halls of Healing leant over the walls to call for news.

Though many expressed amazement on hearing the final ruling, all loved their King and respected his Council, so they sought instead to learn as much as they could of the evidence that had brought about this outcome. Only men of Gondor who looked as though they had been present in the Hall felt a hand on their arm or a murmured request in their ears.

No one disturbed Horus as he spoke to Ukrosh in the street, nor the golden-haired hobbit laughing at some remark from a wizened orc. As to the two tall elves talking quietly to an esteemed lord justice, no, these they would not dare disturb.

And when that strange, small gathering of races began to venture back to their hostelry, the crowds parted to let them pass, falling silent for a few moments to stare before returning to their speculations with renewed vigour.

xxx

TBC ...


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

_2nd April (SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

It was over. The first campaign was finally, truly over. All the days and weeks of their labors had come to fulfilment, and in language nearly astonishing in its simplicity, the deed was done. Just a few lines written on a blank page, and then Aragorn himself had given his seal and made it law.

Erin crouched in her chair at the long table and with small, reverent fingers held a length of parchment flat to the tabletop. It was the copy of the decree that would go with them to The Burping Troll.

"Look," she breathed, lightly touching an embossed gob of red wax affixed to the bottom. "This is his seal. The King's very own seal."

"Yes, laws tend to have those things," quipped Aerio, and smirked at her narrow look over the top of his tankard.

"Just don't get it in the jam or the spilt ale," said Sevi, as she pushed a plate of pastries out of reach.

"Oh, never …" Erin did not look up, her eyes full of stars as she traced the painstaking script of some unknown royal scribe. A long sigh escaped her ere she said, "He touched it with his very own hands …"

A perfect shower of spewed ale sprayed the far end of the table and Aerio coughed desperately, as hearty voices roared into laughter. Cheeks blazing crimson, Erin let the scroll roll itself up with a papery snap.

"Oh, just - YOU!"

She could find no suitable remonstrance, for in her daydreaming Erin had utterly forgotten that nearly all their company was gathered to celebrate the outcome, and now they rocked in gales of hilarity. Gubbitch was wheezing as if he were being crushed by an oliphaunt, while Darien, Anardil, Jasimir, Cameroth and Kerwin literally convulsed with their glee. Aerio's fair face turned wonderfully pink as Celebsul helpfully thumped his back. Even Horus was making very suspicious strangled noises behind the hand he clasped to his mouth. And Sev, being the loyal friend that she was, laughed loudest and hardest of all.

"What'd I miss? Eh?" grumbled Corbat, and kicked Lorgarth, who could only hack and chortle in dirty-fanged orcish laughter.

Aerio finally gasped enough air to squeak in a falsetto voice, "He touched it with his very own hands!"

The elf neatly caught a flying apple before it impacted with his head, but then Erin joined in the laughter as well. For joy was the order of the evening, with a hearty supper eaten and now brimming tankards of rich brown ale for man and elf and orc. A small cask of the marvelous brew had been delivered with the meal, and Cameroth gladly plied the tap whenever a mug went dry.

Their erstwhile companions from Deerham and Tumladen had opted to accept an invitation to the inn's main dining room - Ukrosh last seen painfully neat with a white collar around his great black neck - but those of The Burping Troll and their friends took their supper in their private chambers. On the table a delicious array of dainties still remained, though rather well picked-over, accompanied by a yet-unopened bottle of fine Dorwinion wine that Esiwmas had sent up for their enjoyment. Meanwhile on the hearth a merry fire burned.

The silliness of hobbits was forgotten as talk turned to other matters, and for once the company spoke of things they would do in the future. So much had been wrapped up in simply reaching this point, that it was almost a surprise to remember there were such common things as roofs to mend, horses to shoe and gardens to plant.

"We'll have even more strawberries this year," said Aerio, "since the older plants have emitted new shoots. I have been contemplating how Gambesul and I could construct a raspberry arbor. Wouldn't you like raspberries, Erin?"

"Of course I would! But an arbor?"

"Oh yes." The elf's eyes gleamed as he gazed into the vast fruitfulness of his own imagination. "We could train the vines to ascend wooden trellises to traverse the crown of an open pavilion - having only the vines for a roof, mind you. And perhaps we could persuade them to lend themselves to ornamental forms, swans and such, plus we -."

"Aerio."

"Yes?" He blinked back from his musings to meet the hobbit's stern gaze.

"You do realize you will be the one to pick all those raspberries, once you have them growing a dozen feet out of reach!"

Amidst chuckles Aerio replied with a sniff, "If we find ourselves possessing a surplus, then we shall produce our own raspberry wine."

"That sounds hideously sweet," said Sev with a grimace.

"And what would you know of wine?" Aerio tilted one eyebrow in fine imitation of Master Celebsul. "You, who has never partaken of the ancient elixir born of the humble yet ever-noble grape?"

Anardil's attention was captured then, and he turned to eye Sev in surprise. "Never?"

Frowning, Sev crossed her arms on her chest. "Only a time or two. Anyway, why should it matter whether or not I drink spirits? I've certainly seen enough of it consumed to know that I don't wish to end up retching in a stall, come midnight."

"Oh, no." Anardil's dark brows lowered in a look of concern, and he set down his tankard to reach for the gleaming bottle and place it between them. "This is too fine a thing to be guzzled like watered-down ale. This vintage is to be sipped, gently, and savored slowly." He offered his most fetching smile and added, "It is for ladies to sup in fine glasses - whilst the men belch and make fools of themselves."

Sev snorted loudly, but Erin's eyes brightened and she bounced in her seat. "Oh, let's do, Sevi! Just a little glass, you and me. If you don't drink more than me, you can't possibly become anything more than a little bit jolly."

With her best deadpan stare, Sev replied, "Jolly. The day you see me jolly, I pray you will thump me on the head."

However, the matter was out of her hands for Celebsul deftly took the bottle and in a moment had the cork loose with a practiced _poink_. He reached for clean glasses and carefully poured a splash of rosy pink wine into the bottom of one. The venerable elf lifted the glass with a slowness that nearly suggested some odd ceremony, and the room grew quiet as all observed. Gently he swirled the contents in sparkling cherry ripples about the bottom of the glass, and intently watched the wine dribbling back down the sides. Then he passed it beneath his nose and breathed in ever so softly. Finally he raised the glass and set it to his lips, where he took the very daintiest of sips. Nobody blinked as he held it in his mouth and inhaled through his nose with both eyes closed.

"Well?" said Sev. "Is it going to kill me?"

The glass settled gently to the table, as perhaps the most beatific smile they had ever seen spread across the elf's handsome face. "That … is exquisite."

"Splendid!" cheered Erin and bounced to reach for a glass of her own. She was shooed aside, however, as Celebsul carefully poured for the ladies, saving only a small dram for himself.

"I'll be watching you," said Sev, giving the hobbit a warning look. "As small as you are, a little wine will go a long way, so all I have to do is drink less than you, right?"

"Oh, of course!" said Erin with a bright smile, and lifted her glass. "Cheers!"

Some while later the company had moved to positions of greater comfort about the room. For Lorgarth, that meant stretching full length on the thick rugs beside the table, whilst Gubbitch hunkered in rosy warmth on the stone hearth. Corbat crouched less luxuriously in a high-backed chair, but he was under Gubbitch's stern glare for slurping his ale in "nice company." For the humans, hobbit and elves, ease meant sprawling in various degrees of decorum upon the upholstered chairs and divans arranged before the fireplace.

Sev and Erin occupied a small divan together, the hobbit leaning into her Rohirrim friend with a familiarity that should have earned her at least a warning scowl. However, upon a second look one could see they both bore dreamy smiles of complete contentment. A half-empty glass tilted precariously in each woman's hand and firelight reflected rosily on their wine-flushed cheeks.

"He's a good lad, Cameroth," Sev was saying, smiling warmly at the teenaged boy who sprawled in an opposite chair - Jasimir, who drank nothing more potent than sweet cider. "As a mother I can say that his mother would be proud of him. He's got a sensible head on his shoulders. Rather rare, that."

She hiccupped gently and took a nip from her glass, not noticing the matched arches of Anardil's and Celebsul's eyebrows.

"And you, Kerwin," she continued, shifting her fond gaze to that startled young worthy. "You must have had a good mother, too."

His dark lashes dropped to cheekbones grown surprisingly pink as he looked at his hands and smiled shyly. "Ah - y-yes, Mistress Sevi. I did. The very best."

"Good boys become good men," Sev announced, and nodded firmly. "Under examination you will find that holds true in every case."

Aerio leaned towards Darien and said in a stage whisper, "Is she slurring her words?"

The Silverbrook lord smothered a grin even as Horus elbowed Jasimir, who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle of his own.

"Ah …" Anardil scratched lightly at his nose. "Perhaps you've had rather more wine than you think, love?"

"Nonsense!" She craned her neck to peer at the hobbit nestled snug as a gosling beside her. "Are you inebriated yet? And what are you doing there?"

"Oh, not at all." Erin's cheeks rose like apples in a muzzy smile, but she did not open her eyes. "And I'm just resting."

"See?" Sev lifted her chin in triumph. "I have matched the hobbit glass for glass, and since I outweigh her by several stone, if she is not intoxicated, I cannot possibly be intoxicated. In fact …" She paused thoughtfully. "I feel very fine."

Another hiccup popped out and she frowned at her now-empty glass. "Dear me, I should take something for that … Maybe another glass of wine?"

Anardil smiled indulgently but responded, "I think perhaps water might be a better idea. And I, for one, am ready for my bed." Rising from his seat, he offered his hand to Sev. She frowned for a moment then attempted to stand unaided. The effort only set her further back amongst the soft cushions.

"This divan is too low," she complained.

"Indeed it is, love, so let me help you." Anardil held out his hand again.

Sev accepted his assistance and rose to her feet in a single, graceful flow. However, once standing, she rocked slightly, as if aboard a boat on a lazily swirling river.

"The floorboards need fixing." She glared at the luxurious carpet.

Meanwhile, Erin had curled up in the vacated warm spot, the empty wine glass dangling precariously from her little fingers.

Aerio was there in a twinkling, taking first Erin's glass, then Sev's. "Allow me ladies," he said, smirking at Anardil then setting the drinking vessels safely atop the table.

"Why thank you, sir," Sev beamed amiably.

Anardil tucked her arm beneath his own, and turned towards the door. Glancing back at the others he said, "We will take our leave of you. Aerio, maybe you should ensure Erin reaches her room safely. This has been a tiring day."

To a chorus of goodnights, Anardil and Sevilodorf left, followed immediately after by Aerio and Kerwin, gently tugging a sleepy hobbit behind them. Gubbitch blinked from his own drowsy comfort to grumble his good nights. Then he roused his two orcish mates with rather less tenderness, planting an iron boot in Lorgarth's ample ham and poking a bony finger between two of Corbat's ribs as he ordered them to their feet.

Thus the gathering slowly dwindled, until only three remained: Darien, Horus and Celebsul.

"Have you tried the wine?" the elf asked the Haradrim. "There is a glass or two remaining."

"Half a glass." Dark fingers measured a small space in midair as Horus gave a brief smile. "I will taste it … for today has been sweet after the bitterness of yesterday."

Celebsul poured a small measure of wine. "You do not still hold Lord Valthaur's words as a stain on your honour?"

Taking the proffered drink, Horus paused to sip it, wrinkling his nose in response to the foreign taste. "No. There is no dishonour in a wound gained in victory."

The Haradrim then lifted the glass and drained it in a single draught.

As Horus' nose screwed up yet further, Darien laughed and remarked. "The best way to take medicine … and the only way in which I could manage that green tea of yours."

Horus put aside the empty glass with a look of relief. "Yet you will let me grow it at Silverbrook?"

"We'll certainly try," Darien assured his comrade, despite his own doubts as to the success of such a venture. Horus seemed confident that he knew of the ideal place on the holding, a small area with sufficient exposure to the sun and a rich soil suitable for nourishing the tea bush.

Celebsul emptied the remaining wine into two glasses then passed one to Darien. The other he cradled between his long fingers. "You are both returning to Silverbrook?"

"Yes," Darien replied emphatically. "We worked the land once and we will do so again. Horus has told me of the farming techniques in Harad, and some sound worth trying, even in our very different climate."

"And I will learn of your methods," Horus responded, black eyes sparking with eagerness. "For we say, 'Naught but sunshine makes a desert'. There is, I think, no danger of that here."

The three companions grinned with quiet mirth then fell silent for a moment, each deep in their own thoughts.

A shift of the shoulder and Darien reached for the charm at his belt. Lifting it in his palm, he stared into the facets exposed between the slender twines of carved wood. Elven craft that both baffled and pleased the eye at once, it had proven a source of calm and comfort for more than one anxious heart. Now the obsidian's black face gleamed and reflected Darien's own face in miniature.

"Too much of my land lies untended." He spoke this softly, as if only to himself.

Suddenly recalling a conversation earlier in the evening, Darien looked up and said, "I've told Ukrosh that when he has earnt enough to buy and sustain livestock, there will be pastures for him in Silverbrook."

"He will be a good farmer." Horus nodded to reinforce the certainty of his words. "We may hope he finds welcome from all at your holdings."

"The men will abide by the new law, I will ensure that." Darien's voice carried renewed authority, yet his attention swiftly returned to the obsidian in his hand. "How _did_ you get the stone between the wood, Celebsul? Not by force, I'll warrant, for that would have broken the carving and lain waste all your efforts."

Finishing his drink, the elf set the glass down and smiled wryly. "In the same manner that you, Lord Goldur and the Grand Council achieved an almost impossible feat: by learning the nature of the material; finding in which directions it would bend rather than break; and by knowing how far it could be safely asked to do so."

The eyes of Horus glimmered like the obsidian that he now pointed to with one finger. "The stone is Truth - it will not yield." Drawing his hand back, he touched his chest. "People are the wood - they must be flexible to embrace the Truth."

"Aye," Darien agreed. "But some will never bend; they are their own unyielding truth."

Celebsul nodded and rose to his feet, firelight shimmering in the long sterling locks of his hair. "For them, there is Law in the stead of Truth, and upon that they will either bend or shatter. You have done well, Lord Darien - you have both done well. One day I would like to visit Silverbrook, to see tea growing in the Blackroot Vale, and Uruk-Hai tending cattle."

Smiling at the imagery, Darien and Horus also stood up, the lord of Silverbrook saying, "You will be most welcome. And I'd like to thank you for many things, not least the Obsidian. It has more merit than the reputed qualities: it reminded me when I was alone … that I was not alone."

His brow furrowed with the earnestness of his thought. "The people of the Troll are the most astonishing that I have met anywhere, not just for their unusual variety, but for their kindness, their honesty, their bravery and … it is late."

Darien shrugged and scowled, slightly embarrassed at his attempt to express his emotions, yet glad, for the moment, that the wine had loosened some of his inhibitions.

"It _is_ late." Celebsul inclined his head in a brief salute. "And I will say good night to you both."

As the elf left the room, the Haradrim began to follow but Darien called him back. "Horus, there is one matter outstanding."

Turning, an unspoken question animated the dark man's face as he rejoined his master near the hearth. As ever his inscrutable gaze fixed on Darien's face with the intensity of a great cat waiting only its handler's bidding, and that concentration did not make the Silverbrook's lord's planned words any easier. However, wine lent to plain speaking, so plainly he spoke.

"I have meant to say this for a long time and can put it off no more. Your debt is long since paid," Darien explained, and knotted his hands behind his back, chin raised. "I release you from any fealty to me."

Horus' brow creased in puzzlement. "You would send me away?"

"No!" Darien winced at his own ineptness. "I would have you join me in Silverbrook in friendship rather than service. As a citizen of Gondor, your fealty is due only to the King."

The puzzled expression only deepened, as it seemed did the soft, liquid accent of Harad. "You saved my life - it is yours. That is as honour demands."

"Maybe in Harad, it is so. But you dwell there no longer." Darien briefly clenched his jaw as he sought for the right words. Taking a breath, he continued, "Ukrosh saved the miner, but claimed nothing back in return. That is how it is here, how it should be. I have understood that your ways are different … were different, and while I may never change your taste in wine or tea, nor would try to, I do ask you to take back your oath of servitude and offer friendship in exchange …" His voice fell to a quieter note as he met Horus' dark gaze squarely. "Unless I'm unworthy of that and only your oath keeps you here."

Closing his eyelids for a moment, Horus struggled with these concepts. The ways and beliefs of Far Harad were framed on such different premises, such different customs and traditions.

Then he peered closely at the Lord of Silverbrook. "Unworthy of friendship? No. I have always counted you as a friend, but also as a great master. To all the peoples of your holding you are chieftain. Is this not so?"

"Not in the way you mean. As a landholder I owe as much service to them as they to me. It is my responsibility to ensure that they fare well in the village and on the farms." Darien reached out, taking up his still half-full glass of wine. This was more difficult even than anticipated.

The Haradrim raised his eyebrows. "So it is with a chieftain. He cares for his people and they give their loyalty in return."

"Loyalty I will accept, as it comes with friendship, but you must accept mine too, and you must be free to stay or leave at will, as all my men are." Of a sudden, fire flashed in his eyes as Darien realized the rightness of what he was trying to say, the simple but glorious truth he wanted - nay, needed this man to grasp.

"Horus, you departed from the ways of the Haradrim when you accepted back your life, though you gave it into my keeping in order to do so. Take the final step, _own_ your life again and become a Freeman of Gondor!"

The words rang in that cosy room and shimmered to silence like the echo of a bell. Looking down into the embers that still smouldered in the hearth, the Haradrim repeated softly, "Freeman of Gondor."

Darien swallowed the last of the wine and set the glass upon the mantelpiece. "Take for yourself what we have just won for the orcs. It is your right."

Finally lifting his noble chin, Horus turned and held out his hand. "Then I will try freedom. I give you friendship."

Grasping the proffered hand with his own, Darien smiled broadly. "Tomorrow we travel home as friends and equals. Thank you."

There was thanks enough in what he saw igniting to a slow but growing flame in Horus' answering smile. When had Horus last been a free man? What masters had he served that brought him to this place, and half-dead to Darien's feet on the field of battle? Darien knew not, nor would he ever ask. But it was enough to know that for the first time, this estranged son of Harad would ride out in the morning a truly free man. They had, withal, done some very fine things this day.

xxx

TBC ...


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

_3rd April (SR)  
__Minas Tirith_

Dawn poured itself upon the White City of Minas Tirith and, within her sleepily-shadowed streets, people began to stir. Merchants opened their shops, kitchens breathed warm aromas of baking and sausages, and in the courtyard of a certain fine hostelry in the city's third circle, a small company slowly gathered to bid farewell.

"Ah'll 'ave sto-wans sent to thee when we 'ave a proper lot, then," said Gubbitch the orc, grinning his fearsome, multi-colored grin up at the blond man looming over him. "Sev'll pick best 'uns hersen, bein' as she'll know what thy horse lord smiths fancy."

"Well enough," rumbled Esiwmas. The vaguely baffled look on his face perhaps stemmed from the fact that he, a respected Rohirrim trader, was actually talking business with an orc whilst two more, Corbat and Lorgarth, stood listening. "They need not be diamonds or rubies, but simply stones that would make a good cabochon, even quality obsidian or garnet would be good."

"Aye." Gubbitch bobbed his scarred, ugly head. "A bit o' summat to pretty up a sword or an 'orse's bridle - Ah knows what tha wants."

"Just watch you get a fair price," spoke a new voice, and Jasimir beamed a merry smile at the tall trader, himself once again clad in the garish blues and yellows and greens he so loved. "I hear Mistress Sev drives a hard bargain, and Gubbitch is nearly as shrewd."

Cameroth's chuckle blended with the trader's deeper rumble of laughter, while Sev, seeming none the worse for last night's wine, simply raised her eyebrows and gave a sniff. "Business is business," she said, and Anardil grinned.

Deciding a change of topic was in order, the big trader turned his attention to the former Ranger and asked, "Where might you be off to, next?"

With a glance at Sev beside him, she dressed for travel with her hair back in its usual braid, Anardil replied, "I believe we may be making a trip to the eastern borders again, to visit the Sube tribe there and also the Dwarves in the Ash Mountains."

"Ah." Though it remained unspoken, Esiwmas was aware of the former Ranger's other, clandestine service to the King. However, when it blended with business he certainly entertained no qualms. "Do you still think it would be worth my while to send one of my traders that way?"

"Absolutely. Sev brings them the smaller things, but as peace grows upon the borders I am certain the avenues of trade will broaden. They are good people out there, if treated kindly."

"Very well. Then I shall arrange for someone to come and talk to you, before the month is out."

"Speaking of visits …"

A piping voice turned their heads and Erin came towards them grinning a bright hobbit grin. She too seemed fit and cheerful, a condition surely due to the ample breakfast she and Sev had enjoyed under Anardil's almost fatherly eye. Only a hint of a yawn preceded her next words.

"We'll have to make Lord Goldur promise to come visit us again. After all, he is keeping our only secretary."

Behind her the heavy frame of that worthy, himself, hove towards them with his face wreathed in a genial smile. At his side walked a markedly more slender figure, that of young Kerwin.

"Yes, but that is only so that I can manage not to entirely lose track of what I am doing," Goldur said, huffing a bit as he came to a halt. Casting the youth a fond smile, he said, "You have no idea what a blessing this lad is." Eyes gleaming, he added, "And you have no idea what a hopeless muddle my office was. He found files and papers I'd thought lost years since. And he also found my favorite quill pen, which went missing two winters ago! Behind a bookcase!"

As the law lord chuckled happily, Kerwin's high cheekbones became tinted in pink, and he modestly lowered his eyes. "I - it was nothing - truly - you must tell me if I do too much. I can be such a bother - it really -."

"Posh, my boy! Nay, two poshes." Goldur wagged a fat finger under the young man's nose. "The last lout I took into my employ could not be troubled to so much as trim the nibs on my pens, unless I shook him by his collar! You, sir, are a stroke of fortune."

"Perhaps not the only such stroke," spoke yet another gentle voice, and they turned to see Celebsul and a smirking Aerio looking past them towards the inn proper.

There at the doorway stood the group from Deerham, the young widow Avis framed between the taller forms of the two Guards, Gethrod and Tilmith. Eyebrows rose as they noted the pretty flush in Avis' cheeks and the warmth in Gethrod's eyes as they spoke together.

"Oh, would you look at that," Erin sighed. "Now there is a likely match. The captain is quite a handsome man." She looked up to catch the amusement in the others' eyes and frowned. "Well, he is!"

In truth, they were a fine-looking pair, as Avis laid her hand on Gethrod's arm and let him lead her forth, with Tilmith grinning mischievously beside them. From heartache and loss perhaps could spring hope for the future.

"Good morning, my lord, gentlemen, ladies." Captain Gethrod offered a brief, smiling bow as he stopped before the others. "So this is the end of our odd sojourn together. I would wish you all a safe journey home."

"And you, too, Captain," said Goldur jovially. "Though the matters that bring us together were sometimes grim and sad, I am willing to say that a company of truer hearts or braver souls I have seldom encountered." He lifted his rounded chins as he surveyed the gathering, orcs, elves, hobbit and men. "You do credit to your people, all of you. You spoke bravely and truly before all eyes. That takes courage, particularly when facing my esteemed colleague, Lord Valthaur. He is, my friends, a force that has bested many strong men, so do not think ill of yourselves if you feel you came out the worse for the match. And match is how you should regard it, a contest against a mighty opponent."

"I agree," spoke Aerio smoothly. "After all, not everyone has the distinction of surviving a verbal trampling by an oliphaunt!"

Laughter rang across the courtyard and nearly muffled the elf's yelp, as Erin sternly swatted him on the sleeve. A dark hand caught her sleeve ere a second admonishment could fall, and she looked up into Horus' quiet smile. Instantly her expression twisted to sadness as the laughter died away.

Startling the Haradrim as she clasped his hand, she looked from him to Lord Darien's grave face. "Oh!" she cried. "Now we must say farewell to you, too! This is all too terribly sad. You must promise to visit us at the Troll - say you will!"

Humor lit Darien's eyes as he drew himself up and offered a very proper bow. "As you command, Mistress Erin. A hobbit's hospitality is never to be refused."

Erin curtsied prettily while watchers chuckled or smiled, and then Darien turned his attention to the next matter on his mind.

"What of you, Master Cameroth?" he asked. "How fares your kinswoman, Sira?"

"She is resting in the Houses of Healing," Cameroth replied, and exchanged a rueful glance with Jasimir. "Much to her dismay. But she will be a few more days in regaining her strength. My son and I will stay on here, until she is better." The innkeeper sighed. "She never intends to be wicked, but I fear she is not as deep in her thoughts as she should be."

"She is yet young," Darien replied quietly. "Perhaps from ill choices she will gain wisdom."

As if conjured by the very thought, from the inn door stepped Farmer Tiroc and his misfortunate son, Cullen. All noted immediately that the finery in which Cullen had first appeared, the clothes bought by Margul's unclean coin, were absent. The young man was once more simply a farmer's son, in plain trousers, coat and a clean shirt lovingly sewn by his mother.

"Aye," Cameroth mused. "That is ever the hope of the young."

Cullen's face bore a sullen cast as he followed his father, rather resembling a chastened pup. However, Farmer Tiroc's tread was stolid as ever and his blunt features were set in the plain openness of a man who has never found cause to question his place in the world.

"Morning," he said by way of greeting and clumped to a halt. Facing Lord Goldur he said, "Your lordship, I wish to apologize on behalf of my family. I should have tended to my own house, but I let cows and plows and sacks of seed get betwixt things going wrong right under my nose. I'm taking Cullen home, now, and we'll sort out whatever else comes, together. I'll not have my boy used by mountebanks and scoundrels again."

Surprised and a little amused by this announcement, Goldur nonetheless inclined his head in respect. "All will be well, Master Tiroc, Master Cullen. You are made of good stuff, the both of you." His gaze took in Cullen's startled expression, as well. "Think you not poorly of your father, young sir, because his hands are grimed with soil. There is dignity to be had in honest work, and nobility to be found in a respectable name."

Eyes twinkling, he added, "After all, your father may be the only one of us to walk away from Lord Valthaur unscathed."

A look of dawning insight erased the sullenness from Cullen's demeanor. As Farmer Tiroc bid farewell, the lad turned and, without hesitation, followed his father. After a few steps, the farmer looked back. Seeing his smile and the inviting gesture of his hand, the orcs from the Black Cauldron, Corbat and Lorgarth, turned and slouched to join them, relieved to have company on the journey back to Henneth Annun.

Lord Goldur then spoke his goodbyes and joined in the laughter as Erin grabbed Kerwin around the waist in a mighty hug, to which the young man stuttered himself into a remarkable crimson hue. Young man and old then turned away, following the farmer and his entourage towards the courtyard gate.

So the gathering began to diminish. Cameroth and Jasimir had their responsibility to Sira waiting, and left close on Goldur's and Kerwin's heels. Young Jasimir was last seen dashing after Cullen in a flurry of yellow stockings, whirling past him to shout something that left the older boy laughing and shaking his head. The trio from Deerham next spoke their farewells and departed, leaving Darien and Horus to exchange glances. Nor did that look go unnoticed by a certain hobbit lass.

"Just remember," Erin said firmly. "You are both ours, now. You have a place at The Burping Troll any time your road takes you there and I shall expect the road to do just that, at least from time to time."

Never mind that half a kingdom stood between Northern Ithilien and Darien's holdings at Silverbrook. Sev's movement caught Darien's attention then, as did her out-stretched hand.

"Erin speaks for us all, Lord Darien," she said.

Darien bowed over their clasped hands and then released her with a pleased smile. "Thank you, lady."

"We will meet again," Sev continued, her blue eyes meeting his steadily. "For there still remains Lord Faramir's judgement of Nik, next winter. But we have come a long ways since a dark, snowy cave in the wilds of Ithilien."

A shadow seemed to pass over Darien's face as remembrance rose within his mind. Remembrance of a crusade against orcs that went so terribly awry, leaving four men dead and an innocent woman injured. Meanwhile, he who had saved Sev from murder by one of Darien's own men was not a man at all. Her savior had been none other than Nik, a friendly, undersized uruk hai whose ill luck it had been to get caught up in the dismal affair. Nik was sworn to appear in Lord Faramir's halls within a year and a day of the event and face judgement, or be made outlaw.

"Aye, we have indeed come a long way," Darien replied with a slow nod. "At least now the groundwork has been laid for Nik to get a fair hearing, and to be rightfully judged as your defender and not a mindless beast."

Further footsteps interrupted as the miner from Tumladen and the great uruk, Ukrosh, came out of the inn. Horus raised a hand to hail them and as they drew near, he held out a small sack.

"As you requested, Ukrosh," he said, with a small bow.

The uruk's dark face crimped in what for him was a beaming smile, as he took the sack and then handed it to his smaller human companion.

"For you to eat on the road home," the orc rumbled. "A gift from my own money, which I'll never be able to steal back from you."

Puzzled, the miner opened the sack and from it drew a sugar-dusted sweetmeat. Grinning, he immediately popped the confection into his mouth and said, "That one you won't, for a start. But there's no need for such gestures between friends."

As the miner dropped a second treat into the orc's black palm, Horus stepped back and turned to rest a hand on Darien's shoulder.

"The groundwork has been laid for many things, my friends," the Haradrim said, the words gentle with the liquid accents of the South. "Look who stands here now, and all of us beneath the broad wings of peace."

Orc and elf, hobbit and Rohirrim, Gondorian and Haradrim and a former Ranger from the north; indeed, the ancient walls of Minas Tirith may have never seen such a gathering.

"Truly spoken, son of the House of Narâk."

This new voice came with the fragrant scent of pipeweed and a scuffle of feet on stone. Recognition smote with stunning force as all eyes took in the four guards now halted at the courtyard gate, dark in the livery of the White Tower, and he whose long-legged stride aimed straight towards them. Tall and clad in elegantly somber hues of burgundy and black, with only a simple circlet upon his brow, came Aragorn, the King Elessar.

"My lord! The King!" a half-dozen voices gasped.

As heads bowed and knees bent, a long-stemmed pipe moved in a gentle sweep of the King's hand. "Rise, friends," he said quietly.

When the company looked up, his stern, noble face thawed into a welcoming smile. As the sun warmed Mount Mindolluin in the morning, so this smile altered the King's visage and removed the chill lump of dread from their hearts. For that matter, the pipe he settled between his teeth did wonders to render him truly human, as well.

Anardil was first to recover his tongue, a lopsided grin creasing his features as he returned his sovereign's - and also his employer's - greeting. "You take us unawares, my lord."

"As was my intent." Aragorn's grey eyes gleamed like sun on stone as his gaze passed over the astonished faces before him. "I wished to meet those brave hearts who would tell a king where his policies are remiss." Fragrant smoke curled as he gave his pipe a puff. "And to thank them."

Beside Anardil, Sev clung to her one-armed Ranger's elbow and looked quite ready to faint dead away. Meanwhile Erin clutched Sev's other arm in a vice-like grip. To them the king's full attention now turned.

"Well met, ladies," he said. "Your presence in Council was most impressive."

Anardil shifted his arm to secure Sev's hand within the crook of his elbow, and bowed again as he said, "Sire, I beg leave to present my lady, Sevilodorf of Rohan."

If Sev entertained thoughts of later throttling Anardil in his sleep, she hid them behind her own wobbly-kneed bow.

"Ah, I meet at last the brave woman who stole my kinsman's heart." With a smile Aragorn took a slow step to face Sev, and lowered the aromatic pipe to incline his dark head in deference.

The rolling language of Rohan came from his lips without faltering: "You are a worthy representative of your people, Lady Sevilodorf. To find compassion for old enemies in the shadow of grief such as yours is truly admirable."

Speaking in the same tongue; for her command of Westron had briefly deserted her; Sev bowed and said, "You give me too much credit, Lord King."

"No, lady. You do not take enough credit unto yourself."

Aragorn stepped back and again viewed the group as a whole, switching abruptly to the Common Tongue. "I am called the Renewer by some, bearing to the throne many hopes for days of peace; peace for people of lands even beyond Gondor and Arnor. But it is not upon me, alone, to work that renewal. It requires wit and courage, and the daring to do what has not yet been done. You, honored guests, possess all that."

Then he turned, and his gaze fixed upon Gubbitch, who still stood slack-jawed in astonishment at Celebsul's side. Humor again touched the king's face at the marvelous disparity of gnarled, scarred old orc and tall, beautiful elf: humor, and a touch of sadness.

"Thou art old upon the land, even in the reckoning of the Eldar," Aragorn said softly. "Elf and orc, together. Is that so?"

With a grave nod Celebsul replied, "It is so, my lord. Gubbitch is also reckoned as very aged among his kind."

"Now the days of both your peoples passes, before the dominion of Men … However, that is no justification for laxity in rule. Come hither, Master Gubbitch, I would look upon you more closely."

For an instant the old orc froze, whereupon Aerio reached around to give him a nudge. Stumbling at the first step, Gubbitch lurched his bow-legged way forward and stood before the king.

Once there, he touched a gnarled paw to his forehead. "Good mornin' to thee, King."

A ripple of laughter swept the group and Aragorn himself smiled. "Good morning to you, Master Gubbitch."

Then his expression sobered as he looked down into the orc's yellow eyes, and it seemed the King's own gaze kindled with a keen, silvery light. "Tell me, you have long been known as a captain among your people, am I correct?"

"Ah reckon tha could count me so. At least in my neck o' woods."

"Have you a lord to whom you are sworn? Any other to whom you feel you owe a dept of allegiance?"

The old orc's knotty forehead seemed to draw into even uglier lines. "None ah ever swore to o' me own choosin', and Him that claimed us is gone."

"Would you, as chieftain of the orcs of Northern Ithilien, give your allegiance, now the choice is given to you?"

Gubbitch straightened as much as bent bones and twisted sinews would allow, and held Elessar's silvery gaze without blinking. For a moment they stood thus in the breathless stillness, ancient orc and mortal king, each seeing what he might in the windows to the other's soul.

Gubbitch's gravelly tones were oddly soft and strangely formal as he then bowed his bony head. "Ah do to thee, Lord King. For thou seest and serveth only truth."

That sunrise-clear smile returned to Aragorn's face. "As do all who stand here serve the truth." Tiny lines crimped the corners of his eyes, as he added, "I must some day visit The Burping Troll. There seems to be a surplus of remarkable people there."

"Oh, there are!" Erin blurted. Her little hobbit cheeks flushed bright red under the tall king's glance, but at the same time it unleashed her tongue entirely. "Why, there is the balrog - he's tame, of course, and sometimes puts himself out by accident - and Warg who loves haggis and our wonderful Rangers, and Meri and Camellia are the best hobbit cooks in the world, plus Milo - that's Camellia's fellow - is a splendid storyteller. And there's the six elven brothers, only they're not all really brothers, but they say they're as good as brothers, and Firnelin is a fine hunter while Esgallyg plays music and -."

"Erin!" Sev's strident hiss and a sharp pinch to the hobbit's arm squelched the torrent of words in an instant.

Swallowing hard, Erin lowered her head and peered contritely up through her tangled curls. In a very small voice she said, "I'm sorry, sir."

Aragorn's laughter pealed across the courtyard and seemed to take wing in a sudden flight of sparrows across the rooftops.

"Later in the spring," he said, "when roads are not so muddy and the days are warmer, I may indeed be traveling hither and yon across the land. If I should find myself on the borders of Ithilien …" The twinkle returned to his eyes. "The lure of hobbit cooks may be more than I can resist."

If anything, Erin turned brighter pink, while Anardil laughed aloud. "Beware, my lord," he said. "If they perceive you are the least bit weary or underfed, whether or not the perceptions are correct, you will find yourself mothered most relentlessly."

The hobbit was saved from having to respond to that as the little company began to stir, shifting in readiness for the King's departure, and their own.

Once more Aragorn spoke to the group at large. "I shall not say that change will come easily. Nor shall I say that there will not be cost or hardship. The ways of Men through the ages are not so easily altered. But change is begun, my friends. It began when a simple hobbit took his first step from the Shire on the long, dark road to Mount Doom. I pray your journeys may be lesser, but your difficulties are your own mountains to climb. In your testimony here, I am given renewed faith that each of us will again find courage when further mountains of adversity rise before us."

He paused, his expression both kingly and kindly, and about him was a nearly elvish air of gentle wisdom. "Go in peace and safety, and may the blessings of all good folk attend thee."

Amidst their bows and murmurs of reply, Aragorn, the King Elessar, turned away. Long smooth strides bore him towards the gate, where his guards fell in like shadows at either side. In seconds it was as if he had never been there. Or would have, were it not for the lingering perfume of pipe smoke.

"Hmm," said Erin, and cocked her head speculatively. "He's not so bad, for a king."

Aerio gave an inelegant snort and smirk. "As if you have any other kings to compare him to."

"Come on, Erin." With a wry glance Sev nudged her small friend forward. "While we're here hobnobbing with royalty the day is not getting any younger, and we've a long road to travel."

Esiwmas was in fact already walking ahead, having previously assured them that their saddled horses waited in his stables down in the first circle. The hobbit remained starry-eyed, however, as the company began straggling towards the gate.

"I must be sure to write about this for Meri while we're in camp tonight," she mused. "She'll want to hear everything and I know half of it will go right out of my head, before we get home. Sevi, did you notice the King's hair? He has very nice hair, like a thick black mane with little silver threads in it. Oh, I should like to see Queen Arwen, one day. She must be ever so beautiful …."

xxx

Far down along the broad banks of the Anduin a weary horse trotted the last yards towards the shore, down a narrow path through a screen of budding shrubs and trees. The cloaked and hooded man who rode spared no care for the beast, however, for his dark thoughts were focused far elsewhere.

At the water's edge stood a ramshackle house and an old wooden dock, where was tied a single boat. A smuggler's craft, some might have marked her, sleek, small and fast beneath her now-furled lateen sails. However, her master answered to a master of his own, and at the thudding of hooves a bearded man emerged from the house. He shaded his eyes with his hand to ascertain the newcomer, and then plodded heavily forth.

"You're a surprise, sir," he called in gruff greeting. "Gonna take me a bit to get the boat ready."

"Then I suggest you start now." The horse halted and the rider swung down, where he pushed back his hood to reveal a pale, chilly face and silver-green eyes. "Something unexpected came up, and I've no time to waste."

Obviously accustomed to the other man's moods, a sly grin parted the boatman's beard as he nodded wisely. "Ah, a bit of business, eh Master Margul?"

"Yes. But I shall return, ere long." Margul turned to cast a bleak look over his shoulder, as if he could see through the screen of trees and across the miles to Minas Tirith. "I've left some unfinished business, here, that I will attend to in due time."

The boatman made no reply as he turned towards the water. Margul paid him well enough to mind his own business, and his own business was all he minded. Margul, however, continued to cast an unseeing gaze in the direction of the White City. Those who knew him could have testified that unfinished business was a thing that rankled like a canker in the man's withered soul. Oh, it rankled indeed.

xxx

Much later, shadows slowly turned beneath the horses of a greatly-reduced party as Sev, Anardil, Erin, Aerio, Celebsul and old Gubbitch made their way towards home. Hoofs clattered on the ancient bridge across the Anduin as its broad waters flowed like green liquid glass below. The tumultuous events of recent days left them with much to think about and little to say, so the miles thus far had passed in relative quiet. As their tread dulled back onto hard-packed dirt road, however, Sev broke the silence.

"I have not decided whether or not I will forgive you, you know," she said conversationally.

Beside her Anardil caught the severe look she gave and he arched his brows in surprise. "For what?"

"For putting me on the spot like that, of course!" was her tart response. "May I present my lady - I could have kicked you in the shins."

"I'm pretty sure there's a protocol against that, when one is in the presence of a king."

The unrepentant mischief in his eyes only made Sev scowl more darkly. "As I said, I'm undecided whether I shall forgive you."

"Now, Sevi …"

Anardil's look grew fond as he dropped his reins and reached towards Sev, guiding his horse with legs alone. With a huffing sigh she accepted his warm clasp of hands, while their horses ambled quietly together. Biscuit and Baran, it seemed, had their own mellow thoughts about the moods of humans.

"I am proud of you, _meleth nín_," Anardil said, and his fingers tightened gently. "I would be proud to present you before any king in the world. My Lord Aragorn already knew that a splendid lady had won my heart. Now he has seen your quality for himself."

Sev's explosion of sound was equal parts snort and laugh as she pulled her hand free. "Nmad loof. You have no idea how lucky you are I didn't become ill on his royal boots. My stomach was right up to here!"

She gestured at chin level and Anardil flashed a lopsided grin. "Forgive me, love, but in that I am innocent. I had no expectations that he would appear in that courtyard, any more than you did."

Slanting him a narrow look, she ignored a gruff chuckle from Gubbitch and a giggle from Erin, somewhere behind them. "You are known to sit and have lunch with the man when you report the findings of your travels to him, Anardil. I think you are capable of arranging nearly any mischief you please."

To that Anardil simply laughed, his merriment blending with the silvery tones of their elven companions' laughter. As her horse stepped over a rut in the road, Sev found herself beginning to smile. Perhaps it was a small victory that she had neither fainted nor been stricken ill, upon her first face-to-face meeting with Gondor's highest noble.

"There is another matter you might think of, though," Anardil finally said.

"Oh?"

"Aye." He was grinning again, rarely a good sign. "If I recall rightly, you mentioned owing a debt of gratitude to Warg."

With a contemplative nod, Sev said, "Yes, yes, I do."

"Well, last I spoke to her she mentioned a craving for new type of haggis." His grin widened. "Chicken-flavored."

"Chicken-flavored?"

"Yes, that is what she said."

"Now how am I supposed to make chicken-flavored haggis for a warg? Haggis is sheep flavored."

Turning his gaze forward past his horse's nodding ears, Anardil assumed an expression of deep thought. "She seemed to think that chicken broth would do nicely, a sort of basting, you see, somewhere during the baking process …."

"Chicken-flavored."

"Aye, that's what she said."

"Where would she get an idea like that?"

"Mm, possibly from a hobbit."

Sev twisted sharply to glare back over her shoulder, but Erin sat astride her fat red horse, a gaze of perfect innocence fixed on fleecy clouds high above. Turning around in her saddle, Sev shook her head.

"I've gone mad," she said, and laughed ruefully. "I'm baking for a warg, now."

"Aye, and trading with orcs, communing with elves, eating second breakfast with hobbits - not to mention keeping company with rascally ex-Rangers."

Something warm and wonderful shone in his laughing eyes, and it was her turn to reach for him, clasping his fingers tightly. Moments later, a sudden racket burst out behind them, which a startled glance revealed as Aerio and Gubbitch singing - or what passed for singing - together. While Aerio's elven voice soared like silver, it oddly seemed that the orc's growling tones best suited the song.

"Along the road there is an inn,

The finest place to stop within,

Where ale is brown and rich as sin,

And all for half a penny.

So drink a toast when all's for naught,

Or drink because that's all ye got,

But drink because yer cup is bought,

And all for half a penny."

Overhead the great dome of sky arched blue and bright and upon the fields lay the first green blush of spring. Soon there would be jonquils and iris smiling in the meadows and violets along the streams, as Northern Ithilien burst into new life. Aye, winter had lost its long, grey grip and it was really rather a marvelous world, where an old orc and a young elf could ride singing a drinking song together.

THE END

_NOTE: Look for the conclusion to the Stones trilogy in 'Adamant, next!_

_Thank you, gentle readers, for accompanying us on this journey._


	35. Who's Who

**Who's Who for Obsidian**

**Of Gondor:**

Darien: Gondorian Nobleman, Lord of Silverbrook in the Blackroot Vale

Horus: Once of Far Harad, now sworn to Lord Darien's service

**Minas Tirith:**

Goldur: Lord Justice to King Aragorn

Valthaur: Lord Justice to King Aragorn

Aragorn: King of Gondor

Esiwmas: Of Rohan, Head of Sevilodorf's Rohirrim family, owner of extensive trading company with outposts throughout Rohan and Gondor.

Gilrad: King's Messenger

Conrich: one of Esiwmas' traders

**Emyn Arnen:**

Faramir: Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien

Eowyn: wife of Faramir

Willelmus: Lord Faramir's Chamberlain

**The Inn of the Burping Troll, located in Northern Ithilien**

Erin: A hobbit lass from the Shire

Meri: A hobbit lass from the Shire

Camellia: A hobbit lass from the Shire

Milo: A hobbit lad from the Shire

Sevilodorf: Traderwoman and healer, once of Rohan, companion of Anardil.

Anardil: Former Ranger, now in covert operations, companion of Sevilodorf.

Halbarad: Captain of the Burping Troll Rangers

Bob: One of the Burping Troll Rangers

Celebsul: Male Elf of the Eldar

Aerio: Male Elf, apprentice to Celebsul

Gambesul: Male Elf, apprentice to Celebsul

Warg: Sentient Warg who has adopted The Burping Troll residents as her pack

Balrog: Bartender at the Burping Troll

**Northern Ithilien Orcs:**

Gubbitch: Chieftain of the Orcs

Hooknose: second in command

Titch: Gubbitch's lieutenant

Muggin and Masher: Male orcs

**Village of Henneth Annûn:**

Tiroc: Farmer and champion for orcs' rights

Cullen: Tiroc's son

Margul: Cullen's employer, trader in exotic goods and services

Cameroth: Owner of The Whistling Dog Inn and Tavern

Jasimir: Cameroth's son

Jareth: bartender at The Whistling Dog

Sira: barmaid at The Whistling Dog, kinswoman to Cameroth

Pansy: barmaid at The Whistling Dog

Elspeth: scullery maid at The Whistling Dog

Geralt: stablemaster at The Whistling Dog

Reynulf: baker at The Whistling Dog

Kerwin: out of work scribe

Rathard: Knifesmith

Tarannon: Captain of the Rangers in Henneth Annûn

Drath: Owner of The Black Cauldron Tavern

Lorgarth: Chief of the orcs employed at The Black Cauldron

Corbat: orc employed at The Black Cauldron

Alfgard: once of Rohan, manager of the trading company and stableyard owned by Sevilodorf's Rohirrim family.

**Deerham**

Oswyn: Farmer who once employed Muggin and Masher

Avis: Oswyn's niece

Tobias: Avis' husband

Loni: child of Avis and Tobias

Dunstan: Innkeeper in Deerham

Gethrod: Captain of the King's Guard

Tilmith: King's Guard

Aganza: Farmwife

**Tumladen**

Ukrosh: uruk who works in the mines

**Near the Druadan Forest**

Padric: woodcutter

Dernan: Padric's neighbor

**Employed by Margul:**

Minna: ill featured female

Odbut: male orc


End file.
